


Knight of the Temple

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Assassins, Crusades, Druids, Holy Grail, M/M, Medieval sects, Romance, Templars, cup of life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:39:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Templar AU: When Edessa, a city and county conquered during the first crusade, falls to Atabeg Zengi, Pope Eugene II pleads for the start of a new expedition. Meanwhile Norman knight Arthur Pendragon is faced with the prospect of an arranged marriage. The only way out for him is joining the brethren of the Temple. It's in the Holy Land he meets the mysterious Merlin.





	1. Zengi

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware there are no Merlin characters in the prologue, but it's there to set up the action, so bear with me if you will, until chapter two where Arthur appears. I swear this is a Merlin/Arthur story!

Prologue

 

24 December, 1144

 

The night air smelt like jasmine and roses. It was heavy with the waft of the vegetation surrounding the castle, short, fat bushes and tall palm trees that grew in between the rocky terrain. The moon shone in a sickle up in the sky, pale and translucent, surrounded by a bevy of stars, a carpet of pinpricks against blue velvet. Moon-beams fell upon the ancient construction in front of them, and shed upon their summits a silver light that made one think of an Emir's treasure.

Steep slopes unfolded away on every side and overlooked the road leading to the west, to the coast. The stone walls reached the night sky, their might undoubted as they dominated the top of the hill, mastering their surroundings. They were built out of pale limestone bricks held together by mortar, hard to pierce, even with catapults, impossible to set on fire. The towers were circular, crenellated, connected by curtain walls. At intervals arrow slits opened in their mesh. Machicolations crowned the ramparts, providing defenders a platform to lob projectiles towards enemies gathered at the base of the wall. These daises were so cramped archers would have had to crouch inside them, brushing shoulders with their fellow fighters. They weren't the only type of defence however. The great moat, gouged into the rock, which cut it off from the ridge, presented the greatest obstacle to any assailer. 

Together walls and moat protected the keep, whose mass loomed in the background. It was tall, squat, more ancient than the outer walls, which had been rebuilt by the Franks after they'd taken Edessa. It was a formidable keep; it was a sturdy pile that would hold against most attacks.

But Imad ad-Din Zengi had come here to see those walls fall to him. He had waited a month to see the accursed Frankish defences crumble. He could now look at the keep with equanimity. It was a hurdle. It decidedly stood between him and his plans. But soon the whole of Edessa would be his. It would be returned to his people. The Franks would be nothing but a dull memory, one that he would erase from the annals of the city.

A trebuchet fired smaller missiles that flew far into the air, whilst the catapult threw larger stones against Edessa's defences. It rained them against the great pale walls and the sealed gates, eroding the tops of the walls day in day out. A ball of burning pitch dissected the sky, the flaming projectile lighting up the night. Another deep, booming sound rent the air.

The horse shied under Zengi and he hardly managed to rein it in, patting its neck once the creature had calmed enough not to throw him. Burkan was used to battle, to having hordes of enemies come at them. But siege warfare was a novelty for it. The loud noises that came with it spooked it.

Zengi was still petting Burkan, speaking soft words to it as one did to a frenzied animal, when one of the engineers came up to him. He was a Kurd, dressed in the garb of his people. He was tall and slim, covered in dust from his work. He seemed not to notice this, his face rather showing signs of concern, a deep seated concentration that could not be shaken. “The tunnel extends into the bowels of the earth, sayyidi,” the engineer said. 

“But is it ready?” That was the entire point of the mission he'd assigned his engineers.

The engineer put a hand on his heart. “It is, sayyidi.”

Zengi dismounted and gave the reins to one of his attendants. “Show me these galleries.”

The engineer led him to the entrance of an artificial cave cut out of the defence wall and protected by a system of mangonels. The tunnel was deep and the light of the torches flickering. The aperture was wider than the passage's, but there was enough space for two men to walk abreast. The engineer shone his light up and around.

Dirt walls surrounded them. They were brown, rough, striations of grey rocks changing up the surface with flowstone cementing the surrounding sediments. Reddish pockets also occurred sporadically to vary the uneven surface. Thick wooden beams held up the walls, criss-crossing along the length of the cave, both vertically and horizontally. Tar covered the timbers, which smelt like it.

The engineer waved his men away, diggers and miners with their tools at the ready, and said, “Once we remove the supports and set them on fire a whole section of wall will come crumbling down.”

“Are you certain?.” The success of the siege depended on this man's calculations. Zengi didn't have the same head for construction work, but they couldn't allow themselves any mistake here. 

“We have dug out the base of the wall above the bedrock,” the engineer said. “And excavated trenches into the earth and stone banks on which the walls of the town stand. Without the galleries they won't be able to remain up.”

Zengi gestured at the walls around him. “But will they come down?”

There was fear in the engineer's eyes: worry etched itself on his still youthful forehead. Sweat beaded around it and trickled in his eyes, which he dried with the palm of his hand. “Yes, sayyidi.”

Zengi had seen enough. He had enough information. He turned around and stalked to the mouth of the tunnel, his cloak flapping behind him. With a squeak, the engineer followed him. 

When they climbed back onto even terrain and breathed the fresh air of the camp, Zengi stopped. He looked back at Edessa's defensive walls. He had camped in their shadow for a month. He had come to know them well. Their shape had loomed over his dreams; they had been a part of his life, a problem to crack, a challenge to be taken on in the name of that which he held most sacred. 

He felt it was now time. Those walls had to give way. They had to be a thing of the past. There'd be time to reconstruct them again once they had the venerable city of Edessa. 

Zengi turned to the engineer, who stood in the lights of the flambeaux. “I'm satisfied.” He saw relief in the man's eyes; the shoulder lift that squared his shape. “Set the fuses on fire.”

“Sayyidi.” The engineer bowed before disappearing, gone to give orders to his underlings.

Surrounded by his generals, Zengi watched from a distance. The roaring sound came first, louder than that of any bombardment. Then the top of a wall came tumbling down in a cloud of dust. The rest followed. Barriers tumbled down one after the other; the high turrets collapsing in an avalanche of brick and mortar that caved in on itself, before erupting this way and that. As the brickwork cascaded down, the breaches got larger and larger till paths were carved out of debris.

The fine powders released by the walls disintegrating before them tickled Zengi's throat. He placed a strip of his turban before his mouth and unsheathed his muhaddab. “Charge. Charge,” he ordered. “Take the city.”


	2. Arthur Pendragon

March, 1146

 

Clipping his opponent on the arm with the dull of his blade, Arthur parried the sword. The same motion allowed him to strike a glancing blow on the side of his adversary's shield, throwing him off balance. His sword sliced through the man's surcoat, cutting strands of fibre without touching skin. In response, Arthur's adversary attacked again, a ferocious grin on his face, his neck tendons sticking out from the effort. Arthur lifted his shield, which absorbed the blow with a dull thud, one that ricocheted across the courtyard. There was a jarring impact up his arm and into his shoulders as the after effects of the knock made itself felt. Needing to buy time, Arthur moved away from the range of the enemy sword, hacking with his own to maintain the distance he'd created, shearing his opponent's shield and fending the air. 

It worked for a short while. Though covered in sweat, his breath coming quick, his adversary surged. He whipped the flat of his blade at Arthur, denting his garde brace. Arthur knew he had no time to consider his next move. If he wanted to win he'd have to react, to think ahead of his opponent. That was the main rule in a fight. Arthur advanced, his adversary's vambraces cracking under the pressure. Thanks to this move, Arthur came ranging closer to his adversary but the latter was prepared this time; he parried the next strikes, though Arthur's weapon plunged at him again and again. He tottered under the last blow, which nearly knocked him over.

For a brief moment Arthur believed he had the upper hand, but his adversary had learnt his lesson, stepping away from each attack while using his shield to greater purpose. Arthur raised his sword again, determined to bring this duel to a close. He breached the distance between them, bringing his sword down on the shield, which shattered. His opponent tossed it and engaged in a duel of bare blades with him. They lunged and parried, they met in the middle and separated, until the two blades met with a rending screech, and, in a brief shower of sparks, Arthur cut the other sword down to a stump.

Father clapped from the sidelines. “Well done, Arthur. That was a satisfying enough bout.”

Arthur beamed. It wasn't high praise, but it was as much as his father usually allowed. Arthur would take it. He kept hoping for something more, but he knew how to be patient, how to wait. One day he would prove his mettle to his family. Though he had fought for its honour on the battlefield, that hadn't so far seemed to be enough. 

After Arthur had shaken hands with his rival, a guard captain in the castle's retinue, he went to his father.

Father said, “We need to talk.”

Arthur dabbed sweat from his face with a towel. He shrugged his shoulders and arched an eyebrow.

“Not here.” Father stalked off, leaving Arthur no other choice but to follow him. 

They crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs into the keep. They bypassed the disarming room and a series of chambers, including the great hall, where servants bustled and retainers idled. They went up another set of stairs, this one narrower, dark even in daylight, and made it to an alcove. It wasn't the most commodious space for a conversation. While the floor was covered in perfumed rushes, the area was narrow. Barring the stone seats in proximity of the little oblong window, there was no furniture. Light came from lit sconces in the wall rather than from the small aperture in the masonry.

“I wanted to speak to you in private,” Father began, “because the subject is highly sensitive.”

Though he couldn't say which topic his father would now broach, Arthur had guessed as much at least. If his father had felt at liberty to talk then he would have done it public. Arthur listened; he could tell his father was brimming with eagerness to tell him.

“Lady Vivian of Exmes is on her way to us.”

Arthur's mouth opened a notch. “She's coming here? Why?”

“Arthur, your twenty-first birthday approaches fast.” Father had changed the subject as though it was natural, as though Arthur should easily follow. “From all points of view you're a man.”

There was no contesting that fact. “Yes, Father.”

“We've waited and postponed, but there will be no putting it off.”

Arthur cocked his head. He was starting to guess what his father might mean, but he wanted to hear it with his own ears. He wanted to have his Father argue so he could counter-argue. “You're referring to...”

“A marriage alliance, my son.” Father put a hand on his shoulder. The contact was, however, brief, for he soon broke it. “We've been in talks with this or that family for years. And nothing ever came of it.”

Arthur remembered. Father didn't need to tell him. Yet Arthur knew Father wasn't acquainting him with facts; he was subjecting him to a lecture. “Yes, Father.”

“Some of the girls weren't ripe for childbearing,” Father said, “and some didn't come with rich enough a dowry. And when you asked me for more time, I acquiesced. I thought you had a right to sow your wild oats.”

Arthur turned his face away. He didn't want to discuss this.

“We need, however, to secure your future.” Father sat on the stone bench by the window, his eyes focused on Arthur, who kept standing. “That of our family. You've had enough freedom now.”

“And Vivian is to be my wife?” The prospect wasn't welcome to Arthur. Though with his father a long-time widower he had no family role model to look up to, he could picture what a marriage would entail. And it was a betrayal of everything Arthur was. The problem was that he couldn't tell that to his father. He couldn't explain. There was no doing such a thing. He'd never see the end of it. And in the end he'd be made to marry all the same. His secret should remain such. 

“I took the liberty of choosing for you.” Father seemed to warm to his subject. “She's of good lineage. She comes with a large dowry and, what's perhaps more important, she's of Capetian stock, cousin twice removed to King Louis.”

Arthur fired the only objection he had. “We're loyal to Count Geoffrey.” As nobles, they had sworn allegiance to him. “He might have consolidated his position in Normandy only recently, but that doesn't mean we ought to betray him.”

“Marrying you to a subject of Louis of France isn't a betrayal.” Father's tone sharpened. “It's simply political. Geoffrey is besieged all around. He must contend with the Angevin nobles who're against him. Besides, he has to support his wife on her bid to the English throne.”

“But he does have Normandy now.” There was no fighting the status quo, Arthur was aware. Stephen had lost and Geoffrey had acquired the Duchy.

“But will he retain it in future?” Father's eyebrow climbed closer to his hairline. “Won't Louis of France try and stake a claim on Normandy? And if he does, where does that leave us?”

Arthur saw. His father had planned it all out. If Geoffrey Plantagenet failed, their family would still prosper. “So if Normandy passes under Louis' rule, we're still safe.”

“Yes.” Father's eyes glittered; looking almost moist they shined so much. “You see that that's the perfect matrimonial alliance.”

Arthur could indeed appreciate it. On paper it was all perfect. It granted them a union that would work to their advantage, whatever happened. It would see to their future stability. It would bring riches and heirs. Arthur understood what Father was thinking. But he couldn't. He couldn't betray himself and marry this woman. He didn't want to disappoint any woman, to be anything less than an upright spouse, a courteous and loving husband. He might try but he would fail, which was why he had to stop this from happening. “I still can't marry her.”

“For whatever reason!” Father's voice rose; his vocal chords appeared to vibrate with it. “I hear she's comely enough, rumoured to be a beauty from every corner. And even if she wasn't, you would only have to attend to marital duties a few days a week every month. You can take a mistress on the side. I've never been averse to that and wouldn't blame you for it, provided the lover knows her place.”

Arthur knew that wasn't the problem at all. Even if he could have acted as Father wished him to, he wouldn't have. The marriage vow was serious, one not to be lightly broken. And because he believed in it, he couldn't allow himself to undertake it. He could theoretically do something similar to what his father suggested, but he would despise himself for it every step of the way. “I'm sorry, Father. I can't take a wife.”

Father stood, changing position so quickly Arthur was at pains to keep him in sight. “That's absolute nonsense.” He breathed in and out. He seemed to calm a fraction, though not wholly. “I explained the advantages of such a match to you. You have no real arguments against my position.”

“I have many!” Though Arthur wasn't at liberty to voice them all.

“Besides which,” Father said, ignoring Arthur's words, “she's coming here. She'll be here in a few days. I can't turn her back.”

Arthur didn't want to turn her out. He could be a good host. But neither did he want to marry her. “Well, don't. Throw a feast in her honour, but let her down gently about marrying me.”

“I will do no such thing.” There was thunder in his father's voice, an intractability that couldn't be worked upon with either directness or guile. “You will marry her, no objections allowed.”

To curtail any further protestation Father left the room.

Arthur's shoulders slumped. The confrontation hadn't gone well. He had hoped to paint a better case for himself; to be a more convincing advocate for himself. But he'd gone in hobbled. Unable to tell the truth, there was little he could have done to sound reasonable. He saw that. He understood how he had failed, but he still couldn't reconcile himself with his defeat. He couldn't picture any future to himself that saw him content with his lot and that took its toll on his ability to stay optimist. He simply couldn't.

The chapel was located in the outer ward. It was a stone building that leant close to a tower taller than its belfry. It was dark inside, one shaft of light seeping in through the glass stained window. 

Alone, Arthur walked up to the altar. It was covered by a cream damask cloth, the hem drapery coiled up with ropes of white. A cornice composed of two-inch-and-a-half silk rope with large gilt rosettes framed it. Above it hung the crucifix, a large cross of olive wood from Palestine, Christ golden, but for the splatterings of red signifying the blood he'd shed.

Arthur knelt on the prie dieu, looked up and said, “Help me sort this out, Lord. Lead me out of the darkness and towards truth.”


	3. Recruiting

March, 1146

 

The road ahead was white, bordered by tall trees on either side. The path was fairly rectilinear, well defined, though nature encroached at the edges, with grasses and trees growing by the way side before thickening into a forest. In the midday light the vegetation sparkled green and brown, rendering the landscape rich and warm. Birds called from the depths of the woods; animals scuttled in the background. A deer crossed their path, its antlers standing proud in a convoluted structure of skull and bone.

The flora and fauna around them was different from the environment they had grown used to. It took some adapting to go from the undulating canvas of deserts and the sun-drenched coastal roads of Palestine to this. Olive trees and calendula flowers had been replaced by oaks. Before they'd had to beware savage lions, and striped hyenas, now they had to look out for bears and wolves. The very air smelled different, like spruce and whitebeam bark, the lingering odour of Rosa Damascena gone from the nostrils.

His horse neighing, Lancelot pulled on the reins. He looked at his companion. He was as dusty from the road as Lancelot was, his white surcoat stained at the hem, the red cross on his chest the only vibrant item on a robe made dull by intense travelling. Even the white mantle thrown over his tunic had lost its shine. The chain-mail only shimmered because it was taken such good care of, as always. “Brother Everard, what think you of resting?”

Brother Everard stopped his horse, which nibbled at the side of the road in search of grasses, ripping a bunch of trefoils right off the soil. “Oughtn't we reach Baron Pendragon's castle as soon as we can?”

“We should indeed.” Lancelot was ready to acknowledge as much. “But Edessa fell nearly two years ago and out beasts are tired.” 

Brother Everard studied their mounts. A fine sheen of sweat covered their horses' flanks and their eyes were moist and spirited. “We can rest for an hour. Then we ought to get back on track, for the roads are dangerous by night. Even in this part of the world.”

Though he hadn't been on Norman soil for two decades, Lancelot had been born around these parts, and remembered the dangers of the open road. “We guard the road to Jerusalem,” Lancelot said. “I suppose we can deal with Norman robbers.”

Everard dismounted, leading the horse into the shadows of the forest. “We'll have to be on high alert, we don't have the might of our brothers to fall back on.”

They ate in the shadow of a gnarled, centuries-old yew tree, reclining on soft grass. Their repast was simple; dried meats, sliced bread, and apples from the orchard of one of their houses, which tasted sweet like spring and tart like persimmon. They didn't sleep at all but reposed with their eyes open, watching ants file by from one trunk to the other, listening to the sound of birds that came from the depths of the woods. Their tales flicking, their horses grazed to their hearts' content.

An hour later they were both on horseback again. The roads were mostly empty except for those stretches that intersected rural communities. They came upon small farmsteads then and lonely sylvan churches which failed to boast even of a tower. Those who encountered them stared at them, with a few throwing blessings their way. When they crossed paths with pilgrims, they escorted them for a stretch of the way, as long as their paths coincided, before parting with them at road forkings. Force of habit died hard. Beggars, too, found their protection.

At last they came upon Uther Pendragon's castle. It had a motte in the centre of the bailey which was constructed atop a natural hillock above a bubbling brook. The defensive walls were high, dotted with towers encircled by walkways. The main gate presented a drawbridge. Projecting above it was a set of fortifications that would have provided a clear view of downward and sideways areas, so that defenders could act according to the nature of the attack. The one on the right was octagonal and taller than the bridge arch. Small windows indicated that there were perhaps three floors within the structure, which was manned by bowmen and crossbowmen. The keep stood back from the walls, square and not quite as tall, the top encircled by parapets. If his experience was anything to go by, it looked to Lancelot like a fairly impregnable outpost, one that had stood there for centuries.

“So what think you, brother?” Lancelot said as he stopped his horse in view of the drawbridge.

“Uther Pendragon is a powerful lord.” Everard observed the castle as though assessing it for invasion purposes. “He must be able to muster many men under his banner. His would be a fine contribution.”

“But is he likely to take up the cross in the name of our lord?” Lancelot didn't know Uther himself but had learnt things about him nonetheless. “Rumour has it he's not particularly religious.”

“Nor prone to think of anything but his self interest.” Everard must have been subjected to the same gossip as Lancelot. “But we must try.”

Lancelot stopped his horse from pacing. “I don't think we'll have much luck.”

Even so they spurred their mounts on and identified themselves to the guards. After having surrendered their swords to the gatekeeper, they met with the castle's steward, a grey man, thinning with age but still displaying some of the musculature he must have had when younger. He showed them around the keep, helped them stable their mounts, and assigned them guest-house rooms. Lancelot and Everard had two adjoining apartments. They were large enough but fairly empty of furniture. Since they were lower than the courtyard they afforded little light. An aperture at the top allowed a view of the quadrangle enclosure but of little else. 

Yet they were content. As brothers they were used to communal dormitories or to spending their nights in siege tents or on the road. Their new accommodation was luxurious by their standards, with a bed softer than many a one they'd slept in and with more privacy than they were used to command. 

Left alone by the servants, they washed off the grime of the road, brushed their tunics and dusted their mantles. 

A banquet was going on in the main hall. Lighted candles and torches lit the ambience, throwing flickering shadows on the walls and floors. Bright cloths covered the tables, which were laden with golden plates and silver cups, tall jugs and large bowls. Servants carried in trays and trenchers, spits and salvers. Meat sat on platters. Piglets and boars were roasting on the hearth, gyrating endlessly on long skewers the hounds, a couple of which had been allowed inside, hankered for. Steam rose from the dishes and drifted into the air to create a rich aroma that had the guests lean in and taste. And throughout musicians played for the guests' entertainment, while jongleurs capered about the room, catching balls and dancing round.

At the high table Uther sat, having pride of place, surrounded by his son, recognisable by the household insignia he wore, and his highest retainers. Uther drank from his goblet, listened to the music, and ate with gusto, but without excess.

Lancelot and Everard sat at one of the lover tables. They washed their hands in a bowl and ate sparingly of the meats and fish that were offered them. Though they talked to their neighbours, they did so in moderation, and only stood up to address the lord of the manor once the sweetmeats came.

“My lord,” Lancelot started as Everard looked on, “we ask for a public audience of you.”

Uther Pendragon made a sign with his hand. “Talk then, Knight Templar. Talk.”

Lancelot bowed his head, his hands joined together as if in prayer. “I bring news of the Levant. Thirty months ago the mighty city of Edessa fell into Saracen hands.”

“Saracen hands?” Uther cocked his head. “The first Frank state in the holy land fell? What was Count Joscelin doing?”

Lancelot sighed. The tale was sad but had to be told. “With the death of the King of Jerusalem and of the Byzantine emperor, Count Joscelin lost his allies.” Lancelot didn't mention Joscelin's quarrels with the Count of Tripoli and the Prince of Antioch. His inability to maintain a diplomatic rapport with those two Frank rulers had been a mistake that would only make him sound bad. “Unfortunately Count Joscelin marched out of Edessa to lend support to his Saracen ally against Aleppo. The Atabeg of Mosul, one Zengi, profited by the situation, besieging Edessa, which fell to on Christmas Day of the year '44.”

“The Count of Edessa was a fool,” Uther Pendragon said, looking at his fellow diners as if seeking support for his stance. “Bad strategy all around.”

Lancelot didn't disagree, but he hadn't come all the way from Jerusalem to point out the Count's political faux pas. “Edessa has, however, fallen. His Holiness Pope Eugene III is exhorting all the faithful to take up the cross in a new crusade, so that both city and county can be recovered.”

Uther tapped his fingers on the arm of his high chair. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips. “The Pope is angling for a new crusade, is he?”

Lancelot nodded his head. “King Louis himself has promised to travel to the Holy Land.” It wasn't clear whether the French King had decided to start on a crusade or only take up the pilgrimage vow his brother had left unfulfilled. But Baron Pendragon didn't need to know any of that. It was enough for him to know that a crowned head was right now organising an expedition to the Levant. “Conrad III, King of Germany, is considering joining the effort, as are the Count of Flanders, the Earl of Surrey, and William of Nevers.”

“Good for them,” Uther said, sitting tall in his chair. “Though I don't see the point in gathering a new expeditionary force when the Holy Land nobles squander their possessions and fail to defend them from Turks and Mameluks.”

“They're gaining the remissions of their sins.” Lancelot suspected Uther Pendragon could count many and would perhaps be willing to acquit himself of a few. “They're fighting for their souls.” 

“I see.” Uther hummed low in his throat. “And pray what has all that to do with me?”

Lancelot could tell Uther knew the answer, but the man clearly wanted to put Lancelot through his paces. Lancelot was ready to play Pendragon's game. He had come here for a reason. He owed it to his order, whose members were fighting every day for the survival of the Frank states, and he owed it to himself. “We're asking you to join us in the war effort, to supply men and means as well as your presence.”

“Templar,” Uther Pendragon said, leaning forwards in seat. “I have not intention of meeting such expenditure or lending such effort.”

“My Lord--” Lancelot needed to try again. There was a chance he might succeed. After all he'd read the room. Most seemed displeased with their lord's decision. Even his son appeared surprised at his choice. Maybe they would put enough pressure on him to reverse his thinking. 

“Enough.” Uther Pendragon gripped the armrests of his chair tight, till the knuckles protruded and his nails came to look white. “I said I'm against this mission. I'm not going to sacrifice my assets to regain lands the nobles of the Holy Land lost. It was up to them to guard them; I won't move a finger to get them their fiefdoms back.”

Lancelot would have spoken further, but Everard held him back. 

“My Lord,” Everard said, “we understand your position and humbly beg your forgiveness. We only acted in accord with the wishes of his holiness the Pope.”

Uther Pendragon looked appeased. His shoulders came down; he sat back in his chair. “You can, of course, stay here as long as you wish, just as long as you don't mention your crusade again.”

Lancelot inclined his head in deference. He had wished the outcome different. As a Templar brother he could have done nothing but plead for Uther to join. They were a brethren and, as such, they had a common goal, which Baron Pendragon could have furthered. But he also knew how to bow down, how to accept reality. As a soldier, he had learnt do capitulate. It was the hardest lesson of all to come to terms with, but what else could he do?

Before the banquet drew to a close, Lancelot and Everard retired to their quarters, knowing full well that, despite the Baron's words, they weren't welcome anymore. Lancelot started to pack up. They would start again in the morning, proceeding in their quest to recruit more lords, more followers. 

Lancelot was putting a clean tunic back in his sack, when Everard told him, “You pushed too far.”

Lancelot stopped what he was doing and said, “I know. I suppose I was too direct.”

Everard came over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, “We'll do better elsewhere.”

Lancelot wagged his head in assent. If Everard was confident, then he should be too. A Templar never gave up, not on the battlefield, and not on a mission. He was about to say as much, when there was a knock on the door.

“Are they booting us out?” Everard said, glancing towards the door.

Lancelot shrugged. It was possible. They hadn't made any friends here. Their plea had gone unheard. And it was a troublesome plea. Perhaps Uther Pendragon preferred not to be reminded of it. Still, there was nothing for it but to open that door.

It was Uther's son. He had changed from the formal wear he'd donned during the banquet. He now wore a simple tunic worn at the collar and sleeves. It had a slash across the front that could have been caused by a blade but that had been darned into almost nothing. In short, the garment seemed to have witnessed many a fight. It was a strange sign of humility coming from a young noble lord. Lancelot had known many on the battlefield and they were all, to a soul, both ambitious and vain. “I need to talk to you,” the young Pendragon said. “I want to become a Templar and fight in the Holy Land.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everard of Breteuil was a real knight Templar, living around the time of the II crusade.


	4. Temple Mount

Jerusalem, March, 1146

 

“Al Aqsa,” Elyan said, as he nodded his head at the Dome of the Rock from their hiding place behind a stretch of compound wall.

Though he knew the area, Merlin looked, following Elyan's gaze attentively. The Dome of the Rock stood at the top of the Al Aqsa compound. The facade was decorated with glazed earthenware and Quranic inscriptions that were still up in spite of the political situation. The construction was octagonally shaped and divided into narrow archways separated by supports. A circular arcade of four piers and twelve columns ran around the diameter of the building; a system of windows let light into the interior. Its wooden gilt dome rose up some thirty meters above the surrounding stone-paved platform and shone like a second moonlight in the night air. 

“The Templars call it The Temple of Solomon now,” Merlin said under his breath, so the wind could only stifle his words, not carry them. “As it once was.”

“And made it their base.” Elyan scoffed, speaking into the scarf wrapped around his neck. “It doesn't matter what they call it though, does it?”

For as long as Merlin had been alive Jerusalem had been in Frankish hands. He had never known anything different. And if things had been other than they were, if the Fatimids or Seljuks had the city, he wouldn't have been born in it. This land wouldn't have been a witness to his birth, rather a remote part of Europe would have been his home. It was the crusade that had brought his parents here. It was the bloodshed that had involved the taking of the city that had prompted his birth. It was strange to think on, and Merlin seldom attempted to picture what his life would have been like if his father hadn't taken up the sword or if his mother hadn't been a pilgrim. But as regarded Merlin's purpose, that history didn't matter. How he'd come to be here had no relevance at all. “We just need to get the Cup of Life.”

“We won't get the Grail, if we don't watch out,” Rashid said, stealing up to them, hiding behind a section of wall just as Elyan and Merlin had done. “The knights Templar aren't to be fooled with. Look at those guards.”

Merlin was no strategist. He was no great soldier either. But he had noticed them when he'd studied the compound. There were at least five Templar sergeants, distinguishable by their dark tunics under the coat of chain-mail, and a handful of Turcopoles, who didn't wear the cross as those who had sworn the vows did, but who were armed to the teeth all the the same. Bypassing them wouldn't be easy. But it was what they had to do. “We need to wait for Ranulf,” Merlin said, keeping his voice low. “In case they intercept us.”

“Safety in numbers, Druid?” Rashid shook his head. “Hashâshīn don't need that kind of support. We act alone. In the shadows.”

Merlin stood in awe of Assassins, knew their fame, but still he wasn't so sure they could pull this off without more help. Even counting Ranulf, they needed more back-up. Taking into account the number of guards protecting the Temple, as they now called it, he wasn't sure they'd make it. “Look, I'm ready to sacrifice my life for this, but I don't want to die stupidly.”

Rashid sighed. “I have my orders.” He touched the pommel of his sword, which was still encased in its elaborate hilt. “I'll obey them.”

Merlin knew how Assassins were; once assigned a mission, they fulfilled it. Much like the Templars. There would be no arguing with Rashid. There would be no persuading him either. After all, his destiny would be grim if he didn't succeed. Obviously Merlin had no idea what exactly happened behind the close doors of the Alamut fortress, but he could still guess. The Assassins were promised rewards that had nothing to do with with life as lived on earth but with eternity. Still this outlook mustn't influence them as a group. They weren't all Assassins here. Merlin was about to say something about acting prudently, when Ranulf appeared. 

He wasn't dressed in the garb of a knight, which was how Merlin was used to seeing him, but wore simple clothes, rough and ill-cut, that were fit for a peasant. A hood shadowed his face so that only his eyes showed. “So I haven't missed all the action, have I?”

His eyes getting smaller with anger, Rashid looked the other way. Merlin tried not to baulk at the levity either and just managed not to comment. Elyan stayed imperturbable but then again of their motley group he was the most likely to. He had nerves of steal Merlin envied him.

“When are we going in?” Ranulf asked, crouching lower when moonlight hit the spot he'd been occupying.

Rashid said, “They're going to change the guard at midnight. They do every night. There are going to be a few moments when no one's watching the front facade, which we're looking at. They're used to defending positions from military attacks, not small parties of spies. Since this position can't be infiltrated by an army, they think they're safe.”

Merlin observed the Templar sergeants guarding the dome. They stood with their feet wide apart, their hands at their belt, close to their weapons. They stared into the distance, ever at the ready should a threat appear. They didn't look as they were about to move; they seemed rather rooted to the spot. But Merlin trusted Rashid on this. He was as thorough as one could be. He would have studied the shifts; have been in place to witness the changing of the guard before establishing patterns. They could trust him. His Grand Master wouldn't have forgiven any errors. 

As if to confirm Rashid's words, the guards surrounding the Dome's front straightened, picked up arms, and left. As the place emptied, nothing but moonlight shone on the paving that led up to what had once been a shrine. It silvered the area around it till the very air seemed to glitter with it.

“Let's move,” Rashid said, not moved by the poetic vista at all, sprinting into action.

Shrugging, Elyan loped after him. Merlin and Ranulf closed the rear, going after the other two at a half crouch. They reached the base of the dome and scrambled towards the windows. Elyan climbed on Ranulf's back and, with his fist covered by his cloak, punched the glass. Fragments of it rained inwards; a few fell outside, catching the moonlight like rainbow shards. Laying his cloak on the frame, Elyan climbed in. 

As soon as Elyan was off his back, Ranulf righted himself, pushed off the wall and followed him inside. Merlin's turn came next. He tried not to put his weight on the glass still embedded in the frame, for, though it was covered by fabric, it still dug into skin. The blooming of pain that followed didn't surprise him, but made him grit his teeth. He knew it was nothing, just a small sacrifice to get this done. Getting the Cup of Life was worth any kind of pain and this was minor. He could take it in stride.

When he'd landed, he turned around. Rashid appeared in the window gap behind him. He placed a foot on the frame and propelled himself forward, ending on the inside of the building. 

Once they were all gathered together, Merlin scoped the room out. The interior shape reflected the one outside. Light shone in and directed itself towards the centre of the space, merging with the brightness that came from the torches burning along the sides of the walls. It all rained on the half pillar that supported the Cup of Life. 

The Cup of Life itself bowled Merlin over. It was a small pewter cup whose lustre had tarnished and whose sides were hollowed in places. But it had a brilliance of its own, a power Merlin could sense in his very soul. It made the very life blood in hum and thrill. It caused him to shiver, his very nature to come to fore, till his eyes grew hot and prickled with the radiance of the object he was observing. 

“It's ours for the taking,” said Ranulf, taking a step forward. 

“Wait.” Merlin felt the change on the air, like a kind of premonition that worked its way in him. He froze with it, a chill working itself in his blood stream before anything even happened. “I feel something's off--”

Ranulf had no time to reply. The ground opened under him and he disappeared from view, yelling in agony right next. 

The rest of the group moved forward in a body, stopping at the opening of the hatch that had replaced the solid-appearing flooring. Huge metal spikes grew from the ground, pointing upwards like a perversion of stalagmites. Ranulf had been run through by them, and was now stuck like an insect, bleeding profusely, pierced in various places, a step away from sure death. “Hel--”

Before they could even react, feel anything other than a wash of horror at the sight, the doors to the chamber blew open and a dozen between Templar sergeants and knights burst inside, their blades bared. 

Rashid, as a trained Assassin, was the first to react. He unsheathed his curved sword till it glinted in the torchlight. Elyan readied his weapon too. Merlin was no swordsman. He wasn't much good at fighting, his purpose other. But he had a long dagger with him, which he fished out of its sheath with hands that were sweaty from a deep fear he was trying to suppress.

Before Merlin could right his weapon, the Templars were attacking. They moved quickly on their feet, their use of their swords careful, precise. Two engaged Rashid, singling him out first. Their blades met in a shower of sparks. They clashed together with bright flashes, which sent low resonating sounds that echoed across the dome chamber. As they engaged more fully, their strikes increased in speed and momentum. 

Elyan too had been attacked by three of the Templar contingent at once. They danced around him, their swords glinting as they arced towards Elyan in cadenced attacks. Elyan responded as best he could, keeping his adversaries at bay as he parried each consecutive stroke.

Perhaps because he was the furthest from the Cup, or perhaps because he seemed the least capable as a man at arms, Merlin was the last to be pounced upon. He certainly lacked Rashid's muscle bulk or Elyan's quickness. Nevertheless the Templars eventually charged.

“Hello, my friends,” Merlin said, with a smile he certainly did not feel, “I suppose you think we've trespassed, but I can explain.” Merlin could do no such thing. As a Druid, he was vowed to secrecy just as much as an Assassin. Yet he needed to buy time. His lack of abilities with a sword made it necessary. Temporising, using tricks, was how he operated. In truth, he could help himself out of this situation, surely enough, but the cost was too high to pay. He couldn't do it now. So he had to make the most of what he had, which wasn't much, acknowledgedly.

Before Merlin could sort out how to defend himself, a group of Templars came at him. Merlin danced away from them. He might not have been proficient at fighting but he had nimble feet. Holding up his own puny blade to deflect any blows that might come his way, he skittered away from theirs.

The knights came swinging at him. Merlin ducked and dove, putting space between himself and them. He looked around, searching for his other team members. Ranulf was dying and couldn't help him. If anything, it was Merlin who should go and do something for him. The other two were busy fending off their own attackers. Elyan had been wounded; there was a bright red splash on his sleeve that betokened blood. Whirling around with the speed of lightning, Rashid was still fine. 

A cut opened Merlin's skin at forearm level. He needed to pay more attention to his own adversaries. They had their teeth gritted and thunderous expressions. They were getting fed up with Merlin running away from them. With powerful strikes Merlin only half dodged, the Templars were rounding on him. 

The air hummed as the Templar blades fended it. It sung and whistled as they descended. Merlin put up his dagger. It did its job job for a while, parrying the blades that met it. But when another blow struck it, it broke at the tip. The knight Templar Merlin faced didn't react. He was neither gleeful about it nor triumphant. He just prepared to slice Merlin down.

Backed into a corner, there was little Merlin could do. But he knew that if he stood still, motionless as his dread demanded he be, he was dead. That wasn't how he planned to go down. Looking left and right, he made sure the others were too busy fighting to see what he was at. Then he let his powers do their trick. 

He didn't incant. He had no need to. He could let his instinct take over and be fairly sure it would work to his advantage. 

The blade in his opponent's hand, a fine broadsword with a golden hilt, flared red. The knight gritted his teeth at first, trying to complete the lunge, but when the weapon blazed, he dropped it with a half-suppressed scream. But he wasn't done with Merlin. Though the Templar's palm had blistered, he was still ready for a further attack. This time he used his body, ready to slam it into Merlin's. The knight's cohorts were also rounding on Merlin, and, unlike their comrade, they were still armed.

Backing himself into a corner, Merlin whispered a few words. He then kicked at his assailants. With the combined aid of his powers, he sent them flying in a bunch, their limbs flailing. When Merlin paused to breathe again, he had no attackers left, at least for now. 

“Get the Grail,” Rashid shouted, still locked in battle with the Templars. “Get the Grail.”

But the moment Merlin turned he saw that the Cup was no longer where it had been. In the mêlée, the Templars must have secured it. Who knew where it was now. How many men they'd have to fight to get to it. 

Their mission had relied on secrecy and speed. A handful of men could achieve what whole battalions of armies couldn't, not when facing the highly-trained Templars. Ever since they'd been discovered, the element of surprise had been lost and with it the Cup of Life.

“We can't get it!” Merlin shouted, watching out for new adversaries. Given the alarm was now sounding, more Templar troops would come to the aid of their brothers. “Not now.”

Elyan intercepted the sword stroke of one of the attackers and then plunged his sword in the man's lower belly. He twisted the blade out and used its bloodied length to defend himself from the other Templars coming at him. “Merlin's right!' he shouted, as he repulsed further attacks. His sword arced and spun as he used it to protect his body, adopting precise, deft moves designed not to waste any effort. “We have to--” Elyan's words were cut off as he fought off another enemy, locking their blades together, bashing his aggressor with the shield he'd taken from him till he downed him. “--beat a retreat.”

Rashid had just freed himself from the combined assault of a handful of sergeants. Using the opportunity that gave him, he made for the windows. “Follow me!” he yelled, launching himself at the first available aperture.

Looking back for threats, Elyan followed him.

Merlin was left alone with a group of recouping Templars. He left them no time to react. As he spelled out ancient words he'd learnt from old sacred tomes, he jumped out the window too, vying for the night air, for freedom.


	5. Towards the Holy Land

April, 1146

The sky had cleared of those black thunderous clouds that had turned it as dark as wine. Lightning no longer split it in two, illuminating the world in ominous sulphurous flashes. Darkness didn't eat up the horizon as it had a few hours previously. Nimbuses had changed colour. They were now a scattered fleecing of milky white, interlacing in shreds around a pale sun that still failed to shine in its own orbit. The air no longer tasted like static, like energy whizzing through pores. The wind had ceased gusting and puffing, echoing like a wolf calling out in a deep forest.

The deck no longer rolled. Waves didn't leap past the rails. The planking shone with the aftermath of rain, which had washed away dirt and sand. Arthur looked upwards. The mast loomed over him, pointing to the heavens like an arrow. During the storm the forestays had tangled, whipping around in the gale, and the mizzen had shredded, just like many of the ropes. But the mariners were already repairing all the damage, straightening up the ship and making it look like nothing had happened.

Arthur couldn't even believe they were alive. When they'd boarded in Marseilles the weather had been fine. Temperatures weren't particularly hot, but the horizon had been clear. He had been able to scope out his surroundings completely, the only obstacle to his gaze the line where sea met sky. His main preoccupation in those days had been getting to know the other recruits. 

Gilli had come across as rebellious and secretive, scarcely trusting Arthur with more than a few words at a time. Percival was just as silent, but with him it was different. There was little he seemed to be wanting to conceal. He just didn't appear inclined for small talk. He was something of a quiet giant, with his brawn and his tendency to express himself with as few words as possible. 

Arthur had started noticing the worsening weather when they were circumnavigating Sicily. The coast, which had been clearly visible, became at first blurred and then disappeared from sight. Clouds slowly smothered sunlight, and the sea swelled, the ship pitching as it did. As the vessel laboured among the billows, Arthur felt sick.

Arthur had never been on a sea voyage before and thus he'd never feared the elements, never trembled at their might. And though he tried to kept his mind busy with thoughts of his future in the Holy Land and his body active with helping the crew as best he might, that awe for nature's might didn't die down.

It put him on his toes and kept him there. It worsened his state and made him miserable with nausea and a latent sense of foreboding. He passed wretched hours thinking he would die, his body cold with spray from the sea, his limbs weary from all the work he was putting in.

And now the weather had cleared as though darkness hadn't enveloped the ship, as though the storm hadn't rocked it like a toy. 

Arthur studied the distance, the waters that lapped at the hull, their colouration, a deep blue that rivalled that of chalcedony. He scanned the vista for a hint of land, but couldn't see any. Maybe they had been thrown off course. He couldn't tell; he was no sailor. Perhaps they were on track and had already bypassed Sicily. If he remembered the maps he'd seen correctly, then they would have to sail eastwards, past Greece and towards Constantinople, where the ship would briefly anchor before proceeding to the Holy Land.

A hand on his shoulder startled him. Arthur turned around. It was Lancelot. His cloak was flapping in the wind, his lips were parched from the sea air, and his hair, though cut shorter than some knights, was windswept. 

“Am I interrupting a moment?” Lancelot asked with a small smile. 

“No.” Though maybe Lancelot had. It didn't matter, however. Solitude wasn't good for the soul. 

“I asked the Captain.” Lancelot moved so he now stood next to Arthur. “We'll touch Rhodes in a few days if the weather allows.”

And if another storm didn't sink them, Arthur thought. He chose not to say it because it was a truth they both knew and were both trying to avoid. “I'll be happy if we dock for a few hours.”

“That we surely will.” Lancelot gave him a pat on the back. It was a cursory gesture but one that was by no means thoughtless. It offered comradeship and support. “Rhodes is close to the Holy Land.”

Arthur was aware. He carefully lifted an eyebrow. “It is.”

“I want you to know, Arthur,” Lancelot said with a sigh, “that becoming a Templar isn't easy.”

Arthur had no doubt that was the truth. Lancelot's job was recruiting; he wouldn't lie about the difficulties involved. And though Arthur had brought no retinue, he didn't suspect Lancelot of wanting to ditch him for that. “You already told me, remember?”

Lancelot nodded. He placed both hands on the gunwale and stared into the boundlessness of the horizon line. “But I want you to pause and reflect about it.”

Arthur didn't want the destiny his Father had chosen for him. Being a Templar was the only dignified alternative left to him. “I'm determined.”

Lancelot let his breath rustle out. “When you become a Templar, you take vows, Arthur.” Arthur made to speak, but Lancelot silenced him. “You will take vows of obedience, poverty, chastity, actually renouncing the touch of women, be it only for a kiss.”

Arthur would work on his temper so he could learn obedience. He was acting on good faith about that; he would be humble. He was avoiding a marriage so he thought he could deal with the chastity part of the bargain. He was likewise ready to renounce his inheritance. He couldn't, after all, betray his father in the essentials and then claim what was his. No, when he'd left, he'd given up on that legacy. He often thought of the men and women who were dependent on the Pendragons, but Arthur had cousins. One of them could inherit the title. Once he was officially accepted within the ranks of the Templars, he'd write home. He'd say that he was well and renounced his rights to the fiefdom. Though his father would rage, the matter would be easily settled, and his people would still prosper. “I'm ready for that.”

“You have property,” Lancelot said, as though he'd guessed what Arthur had been thinking about.

“I've considered it,” Arthur told him. “There are others who can take care of it.”

Lancelot didn't question Arthur's statement. He had the courtesy not to second guess his judgement. “It's not just these main rules though.” Lancelot looked down at the grip his hands had of the gunwale. “There are other ones. Some of them are unspoken, some of them are merely part of our ethos.”

Arthur had wondered about that, but refrained from asking. He did so now. 

Lancelot turned around so that he was now facing towards the deck. “We fight to protect pilgrims and the Latin states. But while we do so we also fight for the glory of God. Our behaviour must be exemplary. That's why we never retreat. Officially it's about the odds. If they're greater than three to one, we abandon the field. But mostly we don't do it. We make last stands. We die instead of falling back. That's what being a Templar means.”

“I'm a warrior.” Arthur craned his neck so he could still look at Lancelot. “I've always thought of death as part of the odds.”

Squinting at the sun, Lancelot threw his head back, as though he was sunning himself. The heat was feeble, however, and he couldn't have enjoyed the sun's rays full effect. “I understand. I do. But this is different. You're young, Arthur, you can't have known much warfare--”

“My father is a warfaring baron.” Arthur couldn't restrain the note of pride that seeped into his voice. Though he was giving up his roots, he still upheld many of the principles he was raised on. “He first took me to battle with him when I was fourteen.”

Arthur remembered being made a knight. He remembered the chapel he sat in all night long, on his knees, looking at the cross hung above the altar. He recalled watching the moonlight flood in, throwing the crucifix in relief, its rays hugging the form of the tortured body pinioned to the wood. He didn't pray though he ought to have done. He only knelt there, watching the shadows, listening to the silence of the small church, its four walls seemingly closing in on him the sleepier he became. When the day dawned, his father came in, wearing his full knight regalia, replete with sword and spurs.

Arthur kept still, his eyes on his father and the retainers that followed him. He remained where he was, his limbs aching with the pangs attending immobility, a night of restless waiting. Cloak billowing after him, his father moved in front of him. He unsheathed his sword, a beautiful double- handed blade with a golden hilt Arthur had always admired, and tapped the flat of it on his right shoulder, then raised it over Arthur's head and placed it on his left. As he stood up on joints that creaked after a knight spent on bent knees, Arthur felt like a new man, like an adult. His father presented him with his insignia, and with a new sword. 

It wasn't the weapon Arthur had used in practice, a simple but sturdy piece of swordmithing. The new blade was thirty inches of gleaming steel with ancient runes carved in it as a memory of their heathen ancestors, who had founded their house; the cruciform hilt had an intricate golden pattern to it, while the pommel was perfectly round with a jewel encased at its tip. 

Arthur had scarcely wielded it when his Father said, “Now you can join me in battle.”

“In battle, Father?”

“A group of Angevins has attacked our lands.” Father's grim expression showed how angered he was by this. “Stephen wants us to defend our rights against them. Duke Geoffrey's aim is destabilising Stephen who has holds both Normandy and the English throne over Matilda, who, as you know, is Geoffrey's spouse.”

Arthur didn't care for politics, though he knew their survival depended on it. He was a newly minted knight and, as such, he would go where his overlord sent him. That overlord was his father. “I'll defend our lands against the Angevins.” Arthur made that a vow.

His first day on the battlefield was one Arthur would never forget. The blood, the mud, the cold. His first kill, the crunch of bone and the yielding of flesh as it was run through with a sword. He quashed his fear down then, charging like a man bedevilled. He learnt his lesson then, understood what being a man at arms was. He came to know the glory of it and its downsides, the indelible marks killing left in its wake, the stench of the battlefield, the gore it involved. 

Arthur shook himself free of those memories and addressed Lancelot again. “I know war.”

“It's different in the Holy Land,” Lancelot said. “The stakes are even higher. No quarter is given. Even nature is against you.”

Arthur had no doubt the conditions were different, that he would encounter a new system he wasn't familiar with. “I still want to serve as a Templar.” 

Changing position so he could study Arthur closely, Lancelot pivoted. “I have to warn you that a determination to serve might not be enough.”

Arthur leant closer to him. “What more could they possibly want?”

“Admission is not straightforward.” Lancelot stressed the words. “ Any applicant will have to state his desire to join before all the brothers assembled in chapter. Secular knights are then only made Templars if it pleases the Master and the other brothers..”

“I'm willing to go through the hoops, Lancelot. Rest assured you made me aware of the hardships,” Arthur said. “I become a Templar of my own free will.”

Lancelot nudged shoulders with him. “Then I'll be happy to call you a brother.”

They watched the seagulls soar over the water and fly between the masts. They glided over the dark blue sea, doing figure eights, crying in unison as they cavorted together. The repetitious hush of the waves kissing the barnacle-covered hull of the ship as it crested the waves enchanted them, whispering like a mantra.

“Why did you become a knight of the Temple if it's so bad?” Arthur asked.

Lancelot pushed off the rail and walked towards the hatch that gave access to the below-deck area. “I thought it my duty to defend the weak.” He paused, bowing his head in prayer. “And I lost more than I could ever bear.”


	6. A Nighttime Visit

Jerusalem, May 1146

 

The mirror was tall, and gilt-edged, the frame ornate, with flowers chasing each other around the glass surface like lianas around trees. They formed a crown a-top it, which dissolved into a series of creepers punctuated by scalloped leaves and opening buds that lined the sides. The glass facet had a burnished veneer, a bronze-like glint akin to gold, to sunshine, as one finds it in the East, not mellow like in England, but fiery, glowing orange, relentlessly shining at all times. In places it was marred by black spots huddling together around the borders like crows around a carcass. A few dappled the centre, too, clustering together like perfidious moles, ruining the smooth veneer of polished lead.

The mirror was after all ancient, a gift from Queen Melisende, who had had it from her mother, Princess Morphia, who had brought it with her all the way from Armenia, on her way to her wedding to Baldwin, rightful King of Jerusalem. 

Morgana could imagine it all very well. Skilled manufacturers working molten metal on a sheet of glass, the fire of ovens gleaming in their shadow, the wedding caravan snaking its way from the heart of Armenia to Jerusalem, traversing rocky reliefs and sun-baked deserts, the young Queen placing it on her boudoir table in her palace in the citadel, from whence her husband ruled over the most holy of cities. 

It was as an act of friendship that her daughter, Melisende, had given it to her, and Morgana couldn't forget it. She could still remember her gentle smile, the tilt of her head, the softness of her hands as she offered the object. The Queen had been limned in light, beautiful like an angel, her tiara sparkling like so many stars where it sat upon her wimple.

“You seem to love this so much,” Gwen told her as she ran the boar bristle brush though her long hair. “It's nice to see.”

“It's all thanks to you,” Morgana said, as she half closed her eyes, enjoying the work of the brush. “You're wonderful at what you do.”

“I meant the mirror.” Gwen smoothed Morgana's hair, untangling the kinks in her locks. “You always admire it so.”

Morgana caught Gwen's eyes in the mirror. “It's because the Queen herself gave it to me.”

Gwen cocked her head. “And that means a lot to you, I suppose.”

“Melisende was raised to be Queen.” Though her father wasn't loquacious about this, Morgana had sought out as much information as she could about the great lady. Even if Morgana had been too young at the time, she was as well-informed as though she had been there. “Her father had her instructed in the art of government as he would any boy, and he took steps to ensure Melisende would be the reigning Queen of Jerusalem after his death, going so far as to hold a coronation ceremony investing the kingship jointly between her, his grandson, and the late King Fulk.”

“And now she reigns as Regent.” Even as she talked, Gwen didn't stop her ministrations. She kept teasing strands of hair so they would appear soft and luxurious. 

“She held her own against her husband, even when he accused her of being Hugh of Le Puiset's lover.” Morgana had despised Fulk, as true as she lived, overreaching, conniving ape. “When he excluded her, she acted against him in a coup, diminishing his power, making sure she had her say. And now, while she waits for her son to grow up, she's a Queen regnant.”

“And you wish you could be like her?” Gwen put the brush down and picked up a perfume bottle, sprinkling some of the essence on Morgana's hair. 

“I admire her greatly, Gwen.” Morgana looked at her own mirror image. She looked like the high- born lady that she was, her nightgown spun of light silk with knotted lace trimmings in the shape of wild roses, the jewel hanging from her neck a sapphire cut in the shape of a tear, reflecting light like the waters of a river. And yet this was not all she aimed to be. There was surely scope for more. “Every woman should aim to be a little bit like her.”

Gwen sighed and looked away. “I don't.”

Inquisitively, Morgana tilted her head. 

Gwen understood it for the question that it was. “I only wish for happiness.”

Morgana watched as Gwen's expression clouded over and wondered what it was she was thinking about. For all her long years of service and her outward openness Gwen could keep secrets like the best of courtiers. Perhaps her secret related to her past in France, of which Morgana was largely ignorant, or maybe it had to do with the time she spent in England before coming to her. Morgana could have asked, of course she could, but she was sure she wouldn't be given an answer. Overall, she'd rather not imperil their friendship with her curiosity, even though at times it seemed like the shadow of one. “And I wish you all the happiness in the world, Gwen, which is less than you deserve.”

Lowering her head, Gwen put by all the tools and products she had used on Morgana. “You're too kind, my Lady.”

“You know I'm not.” How could Gwen believe she was less than a splendid human being? How could she go about her day being so humble and accommodating? Morgana doubted she'd be half as compliant as Gwen. “I speak only the truth.”

Putting out one of the candles, Gwen said, “Shall I prepare the room for the night?”

Morgana looked around. Her bedroom was in order. The bed itself was carefully made with the silken sheets stretched taut across it and the quilt of local design covering the foot. In the brazier coals burnt, warming the sleeping area. The curtains weren't drawn and the balcony's doors were kept open, allowing some scented wind in, as well as affording a vista of gardens and out-of-use minarets, church towers, and defensive walls. “Everything's in order, I think, Gwen.”

“In which case--” Gwen patted her apron. “I'll leave you for the night.”

The door closed softly and Morgana was left alone. Instead of going to bed, she threw on a dressing gown of heavy damask silk, which she left open at the front, and wandered onto the balcony. 

She looked at the night sky, at the infinity of stars scattered above her head, and at the city's outline. Morgana's gaze roved over the walled burgh. Strong gates furnished with ramparts protected it; white streets crept upwards and downwards. Pale buildings capped by rounded domes climbed up the hillside leading to a vast, ornate structure, the Crescent on Temple Mount, which glistened in the moonlight, the citadel raised so high on the mountain top it grazed the heavens. Orchards were trapped behind walls, fortifications fencing them in; gardens were cut out of backyards, protected by defensive works topped by walkways, olive groves flanking the sides of the walled town. The city's majestic beauty thrummed within her and gave Morgana the feeling it was magic. 

As if in response, her eyes flared, and her body grew hot. As always, she tried to suppress the feeling. She breathed in and out, letting herself ride over the surge of power. Little by little her senses settled, and she went back to normal, her skin cooling, while her pupils stopped prickling.

She was about to get herself back to bed when a shadow appeared in the balcony's far corner. 

Morgana's heartbeat spiked. Though she told herself it was nothing but the workings of her imagination, she knew it was not so. As her eyes tried to sift forms in the darkness, her fear grew, going through her like shards of ice.

“Who goes there?” she said, her voice at a high pitch. “I'll have you know I'm armed.”

It wasn't true, but that was inconsequential. If something was out there, they had to know she wasn't defenceless. Fortune didn't favour the brave, but the cunning. 

The shadows swirled and moved, dancing in scales of grey. It was as if the moonlight couldn't scythe through them, couldn't penetrate them. Then at last they coalesced in the shape of a man and a footstep resounded.

“Who are you?” Morgana asked. “What do you want with me?”

Finally the man advanced, his face illuminated by the pallid rays of the moon. He was tall, young, clean shaven. His eyes, which at first glared as golden as the Dome on Temple Mount, showed blue in the reflected night lighting. Though he was most definitely a grown person, there was about him an urchin air that confused and defied expectation. Unlike the warriors in her father's retinue, he was slight of build, and his face, sharply defined and a little hollow, told a tale of slight nourishment and hardship. Still, there was a certain charm to the sum of his features, which might not have been called handsomeness, but could not be condemned as plainness. He was, overall, alluring, with an aura of mystery about him that made him interesting.

And dangerous, Morgana thought. “Why don't you answer me?”

The man smiled the most harmless of smiles. “I'm but a poor Druid, my lady.”

“Druids don't exist anymore.” By now they were the stuff of legends, buried by the mists of time, crushed by Caesar's legions, reduced to nothing more than a powerless sect which got extinguished as the might of Rome expanded. Morgana had had her history lessons and knew enough. “Don't lie to me.”

“Druids continue to thrive,” the man said, wrapping himself in his cloak more carefully, as though he was cold or wanted to hide. “Though they do so in secret, they protect the balance of nature.”

Morgana had no idea what he was talking about. It made little sense to her. This man had come claiming he belonged to a group that wasn't extant and was going on about principles that had no bearing on her life. “And what does a Druid want with me?”

“I know what you are, my lady.” The man's expression softened, his features settling into a kind odd moue. “You are one of us.”

“I'm no Druid.” Morgana laughed at the idea. She didn't belong to any extinct sect. She was a lady, the scion of a mighty house.

Extending his hand, he threw a wall of air at her, a blast as powerful as a the most devastating of storms. Sensing the danger, fearing she would be crushed if she didn't respond, Morgana closed her eyes, and stretched both her arms out. Somehow the blast didn't hit her, ricocheting off her palms, before he snuffed it out with a snap of his fingers.

“You still mean to tell me you have no powers?” the man dusted his cloak off. “Because I don't think so.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Morgana was lying openly now. Though the success of her response had surprised her as much as it had failed to stun her interlocutor, she knew what he was hinting at. She was different. She had forces at her command that other women couldn't summon. Just before her strange visitor appeared, she had had another episode. “Go away before I summon the guards and have you hung for a blackguard.”

The man didn't back away; didn't seem fazed by Morgana's threat at all. “My lady, you have powers just as I have. You may not have been taught about them, you may not know how to wield them, but you're a force to be reckoned with.”

Morgana wanted to call the guards and make sure this man disappeared from her life. But what if she told her family that she was different? What if he revealed the truth? Would she be burnt as a witch? She couldn't say. Besides, Morgana needed to get to know more about herself, and this man appeared to have all the answers. “Tell me, Druid, why have you violated the confines of my home? I can scarcely believe it was because you wanted to have a moon-lit chat about my strange proclivities.”

“Do you know what the Cup of Life is?” the Druid said. 

Morgana frowned. “The Cup of Life?”

“You may know it as the Grail.” The Druid's eyes flamed. “I'm sure you must have heard of it.”

“The Cup of Christ.” Though Morgana wasn't devout, this was a tale that even school children were aware of. “That he drank of on the night of the last supper.”

“The actual Cup of Life pre-dates Christ.” The Druid perched on the rail of the balcony like a balancing cat. “It comes from the dawn of time and has always been venerated.”

Morgana wasn't sure whether she could hail these words as truth. She had been told a different tale and that tale was the one believed in by the majority of people surrounding her. “Why would it be venerated if Christ didn't touch it?”

“Because it has enormous powers.” The druid made a flame whoosh between his palms before extinguishing it. “Because its potential is infinite.”

“So you've come here to discuss religion?” Morgana thought that unlikely. He did sound as though he was really interested in the Grail, the latent enthusiasm in his voice had proved it, but she couldn't believe he wanted to discuss lost artefacts. “Is that what you're trying to say?”

“No.” The man sounded amused, diverted by the drift of Morgana's questions. “I'm trying to retrieve the Cup of Life.”

“Retrieve it?” One of Morgana's eyebrows climbed. “I thought it was a nearly mythical object.”

The Druid shook his head. “Oh no.” He chuckled. “It's real. And we need to get it back.”

“Where from?” Morgana had a hard time crediting this take, and yet she felt the urge to get to the bottom of it. 

“Who from rather.” The druid hopped off the rail and turned around so he was facing the vista. He pointed at Temple Mount, which stood silent in the night. “The Templars.”

Morgana chortled. She felt no merriment; she was rather impressed with the ridiculousness of the statement. “The Templars are knights of Christ, devoted to the defence of Christendom. Why shouldn't they keep such a holy relic if they have it?”

The Druid's lips turned at the corner. “There are reasons.”

“Which you'll not tell me.” Morgana could recognise a wall of silence when she encountered one. When her father wanted to dismiss her concerns, any concerns, he took on the same expression. Anger flared within her and she was tempted to send him away. She had a feeling he would go if she chased him off. But he was the only one who knew something about her, about her true nature, and she wanted to share that knowledge. Perhaps if she used him, she would get her heart's desire? 

“I need your help.”

“To do what?” Morgana wouldn't bargain unless she was made acquainted with the terms. She was the daughter of a lord, she knew about treaties and truces. She wasn't so stupid as to go into anything blind.

The man kept looking at Temple Mount, his gaze fixed on it as if something inside it called him to it. “To get the Cup of Life from the Templars.”

The words wrong-footing her, Morgana gaped. He couldn't be serious. He must be taking her for a fool. “What could a woman do against the might of the Templars? They're powerful, almost unbeatable warriors. They have the ear of kings, of Bernard of Clairvaux, of the Pope himself.”

“You're not one to talk women down, are you?” The Druid pierced her with a sideways glance, his blue eyes twinkling. “Besides, I told you, you've got strengths of your own.”

Morgana started thinking she might. Hadn't she repulsed this man's attack? Hadn't she quelled time and time again the strong forces raging inside her? Maybe this Druid wasn't so wrong after all. Maybe he could help her tap into that. “And if I help you?”

Facing her fully, he turned around. “I'll teach you how to use your powers.”

It seemed like a fair plan to her. It was true she didn't know whether this man was acting for good or evil. It was true that attacking the Templars, who were admirable fighters, was a foolhardy proposition. But if she wanted to learn more about herself, then this was a good solution. This man, this Druid, might give her what she most coveted: true self-knowledge. “I agree,” she said at length.

She'd scarcely breathed out the last word than he had been swallowed again by darkness, as though the night air had enveloped him in its cloak.

Looking around for his presence, wondering how he'd done it, Morgana said, “You haven't told me your name!”

The word Emrys resounded in the ether.


	7. Induction

June 1146, Templar Commandery, Antioch

The corridor was long and carved out of rock, the masonry plainly visible along the whole curvature of the wall. Though it was still light outside, flambeaux burned in their holders, throwing tremulous shadows along the length of the passageway, reflecting the ones belonging to passing knights and sergeants. Two massive oaken doors were bathed in the light of bigger torches and guarded by two men at arms holding shield and sword, their mien forbidding, their gaze focused on the distance.

Benches lined the waiting area. Next to Gilli and Percival sat Arthur, his legs stretched out in front of him, his boots encasing his calves, the supple leather shining in the half-light. Like the other two knight hopefuls Arthur was wearing a simple tunic with no mantle, a belt with no weapon. Though he felt naked without any accoutrement, he understood the purpose of his garb. He had come here shorn of his past and former identity. From now on Arthur's future would change and it would be subject more than ever before to the vagaries of war and the will of his superiors.

This thought must have influenced the behaviour of his fellow aspirants too, for their demeanour had subtly changed during the last hour. Percival, never loquacious when left to his own devices, had become wholly silent, and Gilli had taken to fidgeting and murmuring under his breath, the tenor of his words never intelligible. Arthur, for his part, went over the instructions he'd been given, coaching himself into perfect behaviour. Though he had been through something like this once, it had been so long he thought to he needed to be as prepared as he could be.

Someone interrupted his ruminations by placing a hand on his shoulder. Playing down his startlement, Arthur looked up. It was Lancelot, wearing his full uniform, his sword at his side, pointing downwards in its heavy scabbard. “Are you ready'?” he asked with a gentleness Arthur hadn't been expecting. 

Arthur wanted to answer, but his mouth had dried and the words didn't come. He nodded his head.

Squinting mildly, Lancelot scrutinised his face, searching it for signs of doubt Arthur didn't mean to show, then he moved on to the others, asking the same question of them, and waiting for an answer that would satisfy him.

The doors to the chapter house opened with a creak and Lancelot conducted them inside it. The chamber was round with bright arching walls in which a window glowing with sunlight was mounted. Before it was a wide clothed altar dressed with holy vessels above which a simple crucifix hung. In front of it and on a raised dais the Knight Commander stood decked in his full regalia, his mantle flowing like snow behind him, surrounded by a company of knights in battle gear arrayed on benches. Unlike the officiant they were a silent chorus shrouded in shadow.

Arthur, Lancelot and Gilli knelt upon the cold hard flagstones, their heads down as a sign of humility. Knowing he shouldn't look up yet, Arthur concentrated on the play of sunlight on the floor, on the shadows formed by the reflections of the spluttering flames that crackled from the wall torches. 

Light-headed, sweat coursing down his body in a cold sheet, Arthur tried to hold himself together. His limbs felt heavy and less responsive than was their wont, his heart beat fast, and his ears rang dully with nothing but the insistent thud of his blood.

Footsteps sounded as the officiant moved about. Arthur surreptitiously looked up and saw him get a leather-bound book from a young, clean shaven cleric who had stood in the background until then. Then the Knight Commander cleared his throat, his voice as deep as thunder. “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the cross, and in the name of Mary, Queen of Heaven, I bid you welcome, brothers of the Temple.”

A murmur rose in answer, the words not as defined as the ones of the officiant had been.

As part of the protocol they had been taught in advance, Arthur, Gilli, and Percival stayed silent, kneeling, their eyes cast down.

“We are gathered here to welcome these applicants into our ranks,” the Knight Commander continued, his gaze sweeping across the genuflecting candidates. “Should they answer honestly and truthfully and should they prove their worth in the eyes of God, they will become full brothers, bound by our common rule and vows, part of our brethren.”

The assembled knights spoke the words of the ritual, in low tones that sounded like the rise of a storm, their tempo cadenced like a march of war.

“Our brother Lancelot has presented these knights for induction in the full belief they are suitable applicants for the ranks of our order.” He looked around the room, his gaze searching that of his subordinates. “If any full brother objects to any initiate, the ceremony will stop forthwith, and the candidate won't gain acceptance among our files, so wills it Jesus Christ.” The Knight Commander once again peered at his audience, listening to any voice that might rise in protest of the upcoming initiations, disputing the rights of the claimant to become a brother of the Temple. When no one took any issue with the candidates, the Commander proceeded. He addressed Arthur first, his voice deep when he asked his question. “For what purpose have you come here?”

“I have come,” Arthur said, his knees aching from kneeling, his back cramping from his stooping posture, “to ask admittance among the ranks of the brothers of the Temple and to deliver myself unto its mercy.”

Before continuing, the Knight Commander waited, as if weighing the ring of the answer. It must have been acceptable, for he went on with the ritual. “Have you prepared yourself for this moment with prayers, as prescribed by our most holy Rule?”

Ever since setting foot in the Holy Land, Arthur had done little else. He'd spent his time training and reflecting, poring over the rule and all its implications. The vows, as he knew, were strict and even harsh, lasting, in most cases, a life time. But he had made up his mind a while ago, when he'd realised he could only keep his dignity by doing his duty – what he could of it – in the field of battle. “Yes, lord Commander,” Arthur replied, his heartbeat spiking with the words. 

“In whose name do you seek admittance?” the Commander enquired, his voice stern, his eyebrow raised. 

Arthur fought to remember the words he had been coached to say, those terms that had become part of the years-old ritual that bound Templars, and which were about to shape his life from here out on. “In the name of the first master of the Temple, blessed be his name.”

A small prayer on behalf of Hughes de Payens rose from the files of the Templars, the chanting solemn and slow. An amen was spoken in response, steeping the chamber in a sense of spirituality, of otherworldliness. When the invocation was finished, the Commander reprised his role as questioner. “Have you entered the bounds of marriage, or have you contracted any engagement; is there, in short, any woman who can rightly make a claim on you?”

Arthur thought long and hard. Though it was true that his father had sought an alliance on his behalf, Arthur himself had never spoken the words, he had never met Vivian in person, nor had he ever promised her anything. If an engagement had been spoken of it was only by others. Though this weighed his conscience, Arthur thought himself free from all ties with any woman. “I'm neither married nor engaged, nor ever spoke love to a woman. No one is dependent on me.”

The Commander seemed to approve of the words, of Arthur's status.

“Are you, Arthur Pendragon, the legitimate offspring of your father and mother, begotten of a union blessed before God and the community?”

Arthur answered in the affirmative. His parents had married a year before he was born and the ceremony had been public. Unlike many a man at arms seeking his fortune in the Holy Land, Arthur knew his parentage. “Yes, I am.”

This too found the Commander's approval. Like the church, the Templars didn't condone illegitimacy, or fornication. Since they were close to monks in attitude, they couldn't accept behaviour that Rome would frown upon.

“Is your father, or his brother, or your father’s father a knight?” The commander stuck to the ritual, firing off the next question.

“My father is a baron in the land of Normandy,” Arthur said, feeling some sense of pride well inside him at mention of his family's position. Though the acquisition of power wasn't always the most noble of enterprises, he couldn't revile the blood that had been shed in the name of the Pendragons. “I was knighted years since and have served my overlord as loyally as was in my power.”

Arthur's testimony passed scrutiny. After all his background had been checked before this ceremony ever began. The Templars didn't welcome just anybody into their fold.

“Have you made any vows or received any consecration in another order that would subject you to any of its laws and rules?”

Arthur denied ever having done this. “I've only ever sought admittance of the Temple.”

Once this was established, Arthur had to declare he was of a sound and healthy constitution, and free from disease. Only the best made it into the ranks; it was an accepted need and basis for admission, since upon the Templars depended much of the defence of pilgrims in Outremer. 

The moment had come now. Arthur had been cleared; he had shown he was a suitable candidate to enter the brotherhood. There were no obstacles of his making to his admission; none coming from others either.

Everything was about to change now. From now on he would be a part of a whole, an instrument of God. His will would have to bend and he would have no initiative. Those were the hardest aspects of this to accept, his relinquishing of his own wishes and desires. Yet he had made a choice. This way he could look his fellow men in the eye and proclaim he had acted with honour, displaying no selfishness and electing to operate for the good of others. He may have let down his father, but he didn't want to let down humanity. 

“Do you wish to become a member of our brotherhood,” the Commander said, as if he was reading out the words aloud, “accepting the mantle of the Temple and with it the duties of a knight?”

Arthur said, “I do.”

“Are you firm of intent and willing to cast aside all worldly preoccupations and allegiances, ready to abide by orders with no second thoughts?”

“I am.” As a Norman knight Arthur had cast his allegiance with his father and had never dreamt of not obeying; in the same guise he would now stick to the commandments of the Temple.

“And lastly are you for any reason concealing any fact that might prevent you or make you unfit to serve under your Grand Master?”

“I have nothing to hide and will answer my Grand Master in everything.”

The Commander waited a beat so that all present could hear and stand witness to Arthur's words. Once a suitable pause had occurred, he acted. Descending from the steps he stood on, he came level with Arthur, who knelt at his feet. He put the white mantle on him, which bore the flaming red cross of the Temple, and then gave him a sword, with the words “deus le veult” inscribed around the pommel in clear round script. 

A Latin chant broke out and incense burned. “By the Rule of the Temple,” said the Commander, “which binds us in Christ to our brothers and to Christendom--” Smoke from burners misted around on the air, scratching Arthur's throat. “--I declare you, Arthur Pendragon, a knight of our blessed order.”

Stepping back, he resumed his station at the top of the dais. 

“From now on you are bound by our laws and thus a fellow militant of the Temple. As a knight you swear to uphold our rule, defend those who would seek your help, and sustain the Frankish states while always looking to the Grand Master for guidance.” The words of a prayer resounded in the Chapter House, carried by the many voices of those assembled in it. “The mantle you now bear is a sign of your commitment to the Temple, the mighty weapons you've been given are not to be raised in anger but in defence. Be wise and go in God, Arthur Pendragon, knight of the Temple.”

Arthur rose to his feet a full Templar.


	8. The Market Place in Antioch

November 1146, Antioch

The close packed stalls displayed all kind of wares. Vegetables sat fresh and moist in low wooden crates. Pea pods were bulging and luscious whilst artichokes tended to fat, their skin waxy with shine. The cabbages had a thousand layers, their leaves like froth. Fruit weighed down sacks out of which it spilled: bright and perfectly round oranges; lemons with their porous surface; pomegranates with their pedicles still attached. 

Spices filled lines of satchels that emanated earthy, pungent smells, rich odours that made the air sultry. Meats hung from hooks. There were rows of ducks, their beaks slack, and sides of veal, pork carcasses showing ribs, gristle still clinging to them. 

Away from the foodstuff, brocades, failles, silk and velvets covered benches. Cloth for drapes cascaded from poles in veils of thick shimmery blue, sibylline silver and bronzed gold. Leather articles were on sale right across, a wide array of them on display, from bags to pouched and everything in between. A blacksmith had his tent opposite, sparks catching on the wind as he hammered at a blade whose tip was incandescent. 

The market was full of bustle and activity, with vendors lauding their wares and calling out prices, and the patrons haggling over coveted items. Where more stalls crowded together throngs formed, customers running into each other, elbowing each other while urchins scuttled about and beggars stood at the fringes, their palms extended.

People of all origins had gathered in the square, Franks from every corner of Europe; Southerners with their regional garb; Northerners with their twisted hairdos and hefty beards, their patois mingling together. Settled residents were also part of the congregation, their language Arabic, but for those who spoke Syriac, or Aramaic. Men wearing a brimless cap, conferred together in groups, using Hebrew. A barely seen lady reclined on a litter, elaborate veils shielding her from the eyes of the crowd, porters sweating as they carried their burden.

Arthur walked abreast with Lancelot, their swords clinking as they moved. Percival and Everard were patrolling the other side of the market, their white cloaks rippling as they kept pace. Arthur looked about, making sure the peace was kept. This wasn't really part of their duties, but things had changed in the last few months, the situation becoming more and more strained. The Templars had been obliged to pitch in. “Do you think Nur al Din will attack?” Arthur asked Lancelot. He wasn't yet well versed in the politics of the Levant and didn't want to make a fool of himself. 

“I think it highly likely.” Lancelot avoided a group of children that rushed past him. “Nur al Din is only too eager to take up where his late father left off. They have Edessa, so they think they can take Antioch too.”

“I thought Zengi's assassination would have stopped them.” They had got news of it, when they disembarked. Arthur had been so naïve as to think that would help their cause, that the loss of their leader would cause the Saracens to falter, making the reconquest of Edessa easily achieved. Arthur had been mistaken in that. Nur al Din was as keen as his father had been, his aversion to the Latins as strong. 

“You know it's not so easy,” Lancelot said, his voice even, calm. Though he was imparting a piece of news averse to them, it didn't sound like it. Sometimes Lancelot acted more like a monk than a soldier, with his quiet acceptance of their destiny, the spiritual element stronger in him than the temporal. “We must make do.”

“And patrol Antioch along with Count Raymond's forces.”

“Worry not.” Lancelot stopped striding froward and surveyed the market square. “Once the Kings of France and Germany meet, they'll decide what to do, make a plan. The Temple will follow and then we won't act as Raymond's supplementary troops.”

Arthur was about to reply, when he saw a commotion had started in the middle of the square. A group of individuals had formed a circle around two men. One was backed against a stone wall, wearing a brown cloak and cowl, which obscured his features. The other man was, on the contrary, bereft of a cloak, his face bare for all to see. He had dark hair and pale skin, which revealed him to be a Frank. He had a dagger in his hand, which he was wielding in defensive fashion as the crowd pushed and taunted him, raising fists they soon would rain on him.

Arthur didn't know what that was about, didn't understand the crowds here, but knew he had to stop whatever was about to happen. He had to keep the order. He stalked over, avoiding the bodies of those who would interpose themselves between him and his objective. 

Once he got to the crowd, he understood what had happened. The man the mob had circled had lesions on his face, a missing nose, and stubs for fingers. Ulcers broke open the skin along his arms, which were visible where his tunic had ridden up. Arthur was no herbalist, no physician, but he had seen enough to have an idea of the disease affecting the man. He was a leper. It was the first one he'd ever clapped eyes on. Though there surely were a precious few in Normandy, they didn't live at the castle, and his gaze had never encountered them.

A motion of fear worked through Arthur. He had precious little information about it. How contagious was the illness? What risks did he run by standing so close to a man marked by it? He had no answers. But that was of no import. He had to do his duty. He was ready to face death for the Temple, surely this was no different. Suppressing all thought of illness, he raised his voice and asked, “What's going on here?”

A member of the crowd who was bearing a paring knife turned around. “He's a leper.” He pointed at the man so affected. “He has no bell; he has no special clothing. Why isn't he warning us of the disease he carries? Why?”

The mob chorused the same question.

“I'll tell you why,” a woman with a pitchfork said. “He wants to spread the contagion!” 

At that the spectators grew more incensed, crowding the leper and his defender.

The defender held his ground, his weapon held higher, his expression determined, leaving no space for hesitation. “Saracens don't prescribe those rules. He doesn't need a bell or a cowl that marks him out as a sick person.”

Arthur considered the defender. He had courage, that was for sure. He was protecting a person everybody feared. He was shielding him physically. He was arguing for him when he had a horde set against him. Arthur had no idea why he was doing it but he recognised it as the right thing to be done. 

“Antioch isn't in the hands of the Atabeg yet,” one man, who seemed rather well-informed, said. “The Franks rule this county. The leper must respect our rules.”

Another man took a step forward. He looked like a Seljuk Turk, his clothes of wool and camel hair, his moustache turning upwards. He said, “The prophet says, 'Flee from the leper as you would flee from a lion'.” 

Though the Franks weren't friendly to the remnants of the Seljuk population, the words of condemnation regarding the leper were welcomed with approval. 

The situation was extremely volatile, Arthur judged. The throng hoisted makeshift weapons that glinted in the sun. Bystanders multiplied by the minute. Words of rage and indignation floated over, affecting the mood of those who had already gathered close. The leper cowered accordingly, likely foreseeing a bad outcome. He was, after all, surrounded by hostile people. Even Arthur's arrival couldn't be construed by him as anything positive. The Templars had no rules about lepers specifically, but the secular bias against them could be thought to be upheld among them too. They certainly weren't the order of St Lazarus, which was indeed entirely composed of men ravaged by the illness. 

The defender widened his stance, clearly ready for combat. 

Arthur didn't doubt his purpose. It was there in his steely gaze and in the bulge of his tendons, which stood out as taut cables. It was in the thin slit that his mouth had become. In the slightly bent legs that made the man ready to pounce.

Arthur closed the gap between himself, the defender, and the foremost members of the crowd. “Let the leper go. He's caused no harm.” Arthur could tell he had only been there begging, which was one of the few options open to him for survival. Arthur didn't know whether that could spread the contagion or not, but he wasn't about to remind the crowd of that. It would only make the people afraid, causing more uproar, more violence to erupt. “He'll clear the square and go to the brothers Hospitallers for healing.”

“There's no healing from leprosy!” A squat woman shouted, spittle flying. “He wants us to sicken and die. That's why he's come among us with no bell and no red cloak.”

The crowd seemed to agree on this point. They started shouting; they brandished their fists. A stocky farmer with a missing eye charged forward with a shovel, holding it upright. 

The defender put himself between the leper and the shovel. He couldn't parry the blow. He was only armed with a dagger, a serviceable one, but no match for the long reach of the shovel. The blunt part of the husbandry tool hit him on the shoulder with a cracking sound. The defender winced, moaned in pain, but he didn't fall back a step. He didn't flee.

Arthur grabbed the peasant with the shovel by the arm, said, “That's enough, friend.”

But the peasant was too steeped in anger to calm down, had worked himself in too much of a frenzy to come off it. He shrugged Arthur off and attacked again, this time aided by others. They all charged the defender, who had gained much of the wrath of the present crowd. The defender intercepted some of the blows that came his way with his upheld dagger. Some he had to absorb, dancing on his feet to avoid the worst of them, retreating more, jumping from side to side so as to fend off the largest amount of people he could. 

The blows had opened welts on his wrists and neck, the slashes had cut his clothing and the skin underneath, blood welling forth. 

Arthur had seen enough. This was wrong, completely unacceptable. Because his defender couldn't shield him completely from the angry crowd, the leper was getting hit too. He hunched in on himself, trying to get smaller, to offer less of a wide front to his attackers. Arthur couldn't just stand by and watch. Though he was sworn to defend pilgrims and the Latin States, that didn't mean he shouldn't also protect the weak.

He unsheathed his sword and tackled the first row of attackers. Since only a few of them had an actual weapon, Arthur made sure not to hit to maim or kill, just to scare away. He whirled on his feet, put up his blade, staving off blows, metal hitting metal. As he arced his blade round, he took the brunt of the hits aimed at the leper and his defender. With a swift move he disarmed three of the attackers, while the leper's rescuer managed to down one.

But that didn't seem to be enough. The crowd, spurred on by opposition, frightened by the fear of contagion, increased their attempts both on Arthur and the original target of their rage. Hampered by a wish not to hurt anyone, Arthur was having a hard time keeping the aggressors at bay. “Stop this.” Trying reason seemed like a good idea. “Hurting a poor sick man won't help you.”

They didn't listen. They continued hitting both the leper and the man who'd helped him. There was a difference in their attacks though. While they kicked and threw fists at the rescuer, they hit the leper with their makeshift weapons, broom sticks, shovels, cudgels. They were trying to reduce actual contact to a minimum.

In the process, the rescuer took several hits, on his back and on his arms, on his shins and in his flanks. He was punched and kicked, he gasped when a knife found his side, cutting open fabric and skin. Arthur tried to protect him too, for his shielding of the poor leper was making him the victim of the most attacks.

Arthur elbowed people, hit them with the flat of his blade, shouldering away some of the most persistent. Seeing that they were bested by a professional soldier, a few started falling back, slipping away, but others, those with fire in their eyes and rage in their hearts, kept at it. 

Moving this way and that, Arthur guarded against as many blows as he could, deflecting them from the leper and his defender. But he was crowded and at a disadvantage. An angry mob would always get the better of a trio of men, one of whom was utterly defenceless in that he had no weapon to call his own. 

Having less room to slice and hack, Arthur was reduced to punching and jabbing, using the pommel of his sword as a blunt body. It worked, causing light injuries to the most insistent of the attackers. A nose broke, a finger got dislocated. That seemed to be a deterrent, for again the less obstinate decided they had no stake in this and retreated.

Arthur was doing more with his elbow room, when Lancelot, Percival and Everard arrived. They unsheathed their swords and fought off the angry crowd. More and more attackers gave up, sporting minor injuries that changed their minds as to participating in the aggression. 

Before long the crowd had dispersed, cursing under their breath, cradling injured limbs, trailing behind the tools they had used as weapons. The commotion died down, the bystanders, who had not taken part, but who had stood watching without helping either party, now scattered, eyes lowered, gossiping among themselves.

Arthur thanked his brothers with a look, then turned to the leper and his rescuer. The leper had received fewer blows but he was ruffled and raddled. His defender, instead, was physically the worse for wear, but aside from some blade induced tears in his clothing and on his person he looked more put together. 

“How are you?” Arthur asked first of the one and then of the other.

The leper slowly nodded his head. “I lost my begging bowl and I got cut.” He refrained from showing the wound, probably out of prudence, for he didn't know how others might react to the sight of his blood. Given that a mob had formed for the sole purpose of driving him from the square, his reaction wasn't absurd. “But I'm well.”

Arthur wasn't too convinced. The leper had bowed his head, avoiding eye contact, as if he too wasn't too sure. “You should see a physician.” There surely was one who'd be happy to look after this tormented man. 

Sweaty from the fight, Lancelot stepped in. “I know a brother Hospitaller who's a very good herbalist and assists the sick with heart and skill. He's used to patching up battle wounds, I'm sure he can help you.”

The leper looked dubious. “Will he treat me though?”

“He will.” Lancelot spoke with assurance, leaving no space for doubt. “He's a monk first and sworn to help the sick.”

The rescuer put a hand on the leper's shoulder and said, “I would give the brother a try. He can look after you.”

The leper nodded. “I thank you.” He made as if to shake his rescuer's hand, but he refrained, clearly thinking better of it. “Without you I don't know where I'd have been.” His gaze shifted onto Arthur and the other Templars. “And you. I'll take your advice.”

Lancelot offered to escort the leper to the Hospitallers' headquarters, while Everard and Percival also decamped, saying they had to return to their jobs. After the incident with the leper there was unrest in the square; people weren't as easy in their hearts, their souls heavy with strife. As Templars, they needed to keep an eye on the situation.

Only Arthur and the leper's defender remained. Arthur gave the man a once over, the cut he had received still bled and his skin was starting to bruise. He needed some attention too. “You should have joined Lancelot and gone to the Hospitallers. They would have sorted you out.”

The man gave himself a pat. It was as if he only now noticed the injuries he'd sustained. He staunched the blood flowing from the cuts he'd received, rending off a piece of his tunic to form a bandage. “I'm fine.”

“You're not fine.” Arthur should have insisted before. “Someone needs to see to you.”

“Truly, I don't need any help whatsoever,” the man said, tightening the makeshift bandage. “I'm fine.”

“It seems to me you need at least to sit down for a while, recuperate.” Arthur was no man of science, he didn't understand the art of medicine, but he knew a man wearied by a fight when he saw one. Yet he also detected the man's discomfort at the notion of being examined. Still, he couldn't entirely drop the subject. “Let me at least get a fortifying beverage into you. You need it, believe me.”

The man seemed to teeter on the verge of refusing, but then his frown dissolved, and he tried on a smile for size. It wasn't a large smile by any means, but it was an arresting one, brightening the face, making it look welcoming and handsome in a way that hadn't quite shone through before. “I'm Merlin,” the man said, before letting himself be led into a tavern far away from the square and the area the commotion had taken place in.

The tavern looked like any place of such calling in Europe. It was low-ceilinged and dark, with visible rafters and an open hearth patrons could gather round. However, the walls were of pale stone, such as was more easily found in the vicinity of Antioch. This type of architecture was less typical of more Northern shores. A serving girl went from table to table, avoiding the most raucous ones until the men seated round it had calmed. Eyes swivelled round as Arthur and Merlin found a table, gazes fixed on Arthur's white Templar uniform.

As Merlin drank his fill of a warm honey-based beverage, Arthur watched him. He drank slowly and calmly as though he hadn't just barely survived an encounter with an angry mob. His movements weren't sparse or elegant, but there was a certain charm to them. Merlin was a simple man, Arthur could tell, without the airs and graces of a nobleman, yet never uncouth. 

“So what made you help that man in the square?” Arthur knew that not many were kind to lepers, fear of their disease spurring them on.

“He was awfully beset,” Merlin said, cupping his mug. “He needed me.”

“That's commendable,” Arthur said, unable to check his admiration. 

“The same could be said of you.” Merlin took a sip and arched an eyebrow. “You came to the rescue.”

“That's what Templars do.” Arthur was new to the mantle, but he prided himself on his role nonetheless.

Merlin didn't look convinced. “They fight for kings and great lords. Not the common people.”

“That's not true!” Arthur drew back, hurt. “We protect pilgrims and pilgrim routes. We make the Holy Land safe for them.”

“It could have been safe without you.” Merlin stopped taking small mouthfuls of his herbal concoction.

“Well, not really.” Arthur thought that faulty information. “The 1096 expedition started because the Seljuks barred Christians from accessing Jerusalem.”

“I know that.” Merlin frowned as though he'd taken offence at Arthur's reminder. “But couldn't have that been seen to diplomatically?”

“That's naive of you to think so.” Arthur had had enough experience as a man at arms to know this. “Sometimes you need armies to make your point.”

Merlin conceded with a shrug. “I still think it wrong.”

“That we're here at all?” Arthur wanted to know what Merlin thought. His defending of the leper had gained Arthur's respect, but his stance on the Holy Land confused him. It was a strange one for a Frank to entertain at all. There was a fallacy in his case, however. “You're here too.”

“I didn't take the cross,” Merlin said, picking his mug up again, cradling it for warmth. “I was born here. My father was a crusader. He married a pilgrim and here I am.”

“So you never once saw the West?”

“No.” Merlin shook his head. “But I do mean to go one day.”

“What's stopping you?” Arthur asked before realising Merlin probably didn't have money for the passage. “Wait, you don't have to answer.”

Merlin didn't look like he wanted to, but then something about his guarded demeanour changed and he said, “I have business here.”

Silence fell between them though Arthur wanted to break it. For some reason he wanted to understand what made this man function as he did, what had made him act the way he had. He wished he could fathom the reasons behind his stance, his unusual view of the crusade. He considered sounding him on these, just so he could hear him speak, but they had a tentative understanding, and Arthur didn't want to nullify it. At last he said what he thought, the impulse irrepressible. “You did good out there.”

Merlin looked up from the contemplation of his mug. He studied Arthur, as if probing him for sincerity. Arthur held his gaze and that appeared to please Merlin for he smiled and that smile was honest, one Arthur would remember. At it Arthur felt himself acquitted. He didn't know of what accusation, but he nonetheless felt he had this man's esteem, or if not that, at least his appreciation. He didn't know what it was exactly, he couldn't name the feeling, but they were sharing a moment of understanding, a connection.

“Leave the Templars.” Merlin pushed the mug away. “It's wise advice.”

Arthur laughed at the non sequitur. He liked Merlin. There was something about him that was intriguing, his courage in defending a man needing his help while barely armed himself, his outspoken opinions, his upholding them in spite of his status, for Merlin, Arthur could tell was no knight and no nobleman. And yet he commanded respect. Still, Arthur couldn't refrain from baulking. “I spoke vows before God. They're holy vows. Nothing would induce me to betray them.”

Merlin inclined his head, as if he'd expected such an answer. “I had to try,” he said. “Be well, Knight Templar.”

Merlin turned on his heels and approached the exit. Before he had reached it, Arthur shouted after him. “It's Arthur.” He paused, then more softly he added, “Arthur Pendragon.”


	9. Time for a Decision

Antioch, November 1146

The fabric was thick and coarse. The needle pierced through it with difficulty, the thread following in its wake, bringing together the torn sides of the tunic. Merlin moved the needle up and down, taking half a dozen stitches before using a copper thimble to push the little length of metal all the way through the wollen material. He straightened the seam so that it didn't pucker, and examined his handiwork. It was passable enough. He wouldn't be able to go into company with such a threadbare tunic but he could use it still, which was all that mattered. It wasn't as if he attended grand events anyway. He didn't meet knights and nobles, kings or eminent clerics. The tunic could weather some more rough treatment now. It was good for a few more adventures. He'd just had to remember not to get into anymore public scrapes as he had a few days prior. Before pulling the thread through twists, he held the patch he was working on in place and inserted the needle again to anchor the stitch.

The door to the hovel opened with a creak. A cloaked figure entered, the pommel of his Kilij shining in the semi-darkness. 

His powers at his fingertips, Merlin looked up, dropping the item of clothing he'd been patching up. 

The figured lowered their hood. Rashid's features got highlighted by the orange glow of the tapers. “You met with a Templar.”

Merlin didn't even blink. “Your spies are at work.”

“Hashâshīns know everything.” He took off his cloak and dropped it on one of the nearby benches. “Why did you make contact?”

Merlin plunged the needle in the fabric. “I most certainly wasn't trying to. I was helping a man in need.”

“You fooled me then.” Rashid paced up and down, his dark clothing blending in with the room's shadows. “I thought your actions had purpose.”

Merlin frowned at Rashid. “They did. Saving a man.”

Rashid took a stool and placed it close to Merlin's seat, leaving the bare table, on which a sliced load of bread sat, between them. “You should use the connection you made.”

Merlin put away the cloak he'd been working on. Now was not the time to salvage his clothing, however much intervention it needed. “What do you mean?”

“We didn't manage to steal the Grail, did we?”

That was something Merlin really didn't need reminding of. “We did fail.”

“So the time has come for some different kind of planning.” Rashid's eyes glinted with purpose. 

Merlin knew that look and was aware of what it purported. “Speak out, Rashid. What's your intent?”

“I have it on good authority you made friends with that Templar Knight,” Rashid said, stretching himself out on his stool. While his pose was relaxed, there was a keenness in the look in his eyes that belied all composure. “I say use that friendship.”

Merlin only partly saw what Rashid meant. The implications were many, the possible outcomes even more. “Be more precise.”

“If this knight likes you, there's a chance he'll let you into his confidence.” Rashid looked pointedly at Merlin.

“He barely knows me.” Merlin had indeed felt some type of connection to Arthur Pendragon. He had been drawn to him in a way that knew little rhyme or reason. At the time he had speculated it was because of the circumstances of their meeting. Now he wasn't so sure. He suspected it was something more primal. “Why should he do that when he has his brothers to look to?”

“He will, if you're close to him.” Rashid dusted off his breeches, then gazed back up. 

Merlin laughed. “I can't possibly get close to him. Templars are a close knit group. They fight together, they are housed together, they confer together. I'd never have any access to him.”

“That is true.” Rashid inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But you would have if you were his servant.”

“I would have to become a Templar sergeant,” Merlin said, knowing he wouldn't suit the position. Even faking would be hard for him.

“You can be a lay servant.” Rashid picked up one of the bread slices placed on the tray on the table and bit off a piece. “They have those about.”

Merlin thought fast and hard. If he didn't have to take up the sword, he might be able to pull the deception off, for no one would believe he was contemplating a career as a man at arms. Though he could defend himself if worst came to worst, a fighter he was not. Besides, if he didn't have to take up arms for the wrong cause, he'd feel decidedly more comfortable. Still, there were holes in this plan and Merlin meant to pick at them. “And once I become his servant, what do I do?”

“Watch, observe, take stock.”

Merlin snorted. “That's all very well and good, but it's not going to get us any closer to our goal.”

“If, following our last attack, they moved the Grail to Antioch, then you might find out where they keep it.” Rashid had an impassioned tone now, so different from his usual cold and casual manner. “And if you get close enough to it, you might take it.”

Merlin took a moment to think about Rashid's plan. It wasn't too bad a one. Merlin could certainly see its advantages. If he moved in the midst of the Templars, he could more easily secure the Cup of Life. And yet, he wasn't certain this was the best option. “What makes you think I might accomplish alone what we weren't able to do as a group?”

Rashid's mouth firmed. “Opportunity.”

“Oughtn't we to wait till the Lady Morgana joins us?” Merlin had begun working with her and she showed more promise than Merlin had ever seen. But she needed more time to learn focus, how to train her powers into doing what she wanted them to and not what they would. Yet he couldn't say as much to Rashid, who ignored Morgana's true nature, and only took her for a noblewoman. “Once we're sure of our numbers, we can act safely.”

“I doubt the lady can do much.” Rashid gazed squarely at him. “No matter how much she can donate to our cause.”

Without telling the truth, Merlin could hardly reply. He was hobbled by secrecy and had thus no proper comeback. There were more reasons he could cite however. “The knight, Arthur Pendragon,” he said, appealing to Rashid's sense of honour, “seemed like an honest and fair man. I couldn't dupe him so.”

“He might be a perfect gentle knight.” Rashid's voice wasn't as harsh as Merlin had expected. “But the Grail can't be left with the Templars. The consequences would be tragic and enduring.”

“But the deceit!” Merlin didn't like lying. He did enough of it for reasons he couldn't control. He'd rather not add to them, especially not when the man he should be dishonest towards had proved himself an upstanding knight. It was true that Merlin didn't know him well, was ignorant of the reasons that had brought him to the Holy Land, but it still sat ill with him. “Think of it!”

“I'm no liar and no dissembler,” Rashid said, just as the moonlight coming in from the window behind Merlin hit him full in the face. “But my oath comes first. My duty is foremost.”

“And so should mine be, isn't that what you're trying to say?” Merlin didn't know where he stood in that regard. He had done many questionable things for the Druids, but he'd always known that he had a good reason for it. This level of duplicity disgusted him more than any other choice he'd made before. “But I suppose there are limits.”

“Not in this case.” Rashid's body was thrown in shadow as the candle blew out and the moon hid behind a veil of clouds. “How long have the Templars held the Grail?”

Merlin didn't need to answer but he did it all the same. “Since they took Jerusalem in 1099.”

“Since then we have tried to retrieve it but with no success.” A jab of moonlight high-lit Rashid's mouth as he spoke. “Many of us have attempted and failed. 'Tis high time to change tactics.”

Merlin settled for saying, “Perhaps.”

“There's no perhaps, Druid.” Rashid shifted, squaring his shoulders as if for battle. “We have a great opportunity. We should make use of it.”

Merlin was sworn to the cause. He hadn't come to it yesterday either. He understood that they had a unique chance, that they could succeed in a mission that was meant to do good. He still wasn't quite ready to accept his part in it though. “Couldn't someone else do it?” He thought of Arthur Pendragon then. Based on what he knew of him, he didn't deserve being used. Merlin not doing it would make no difference in the end. And yet he'd rather be free of that burden. “I'm not good at dissembling.”

Rashid stood, his clothes barely even rustling as he moved. He picked up the cloak he had discarded and wrapped it around himself. “You are the one the Templar knows and likes. You're the one who should do it. Think about it. The destiny of our cause rests on your shoulders.”

Merlin lit up a taper and looked up at Rashid. He gave no answer. He left without saying a word.

The night was clear and dark, and the stars shone brilliantly as Merlin stepped out of his hovel and into the cobblestoned street. The moon was fat and round up in the sky, with passing clouds dimming its lustre from time to time. Everything was utterly still and quiet. Not a single dog barked, as though the low, starry sky had somehow pacified them, not a single cart sped by, as though all activity had been laid aside for the day. 

Though he was new to the city, it didn't take long for Merlin to orientate himself. He used his scant knowledge of the place and his instincts to guess where to go. As he went he took stock of his surroundings. Antioch was subtly different from Jerusalem. It was much more modern for one. Though Antioch's heart was old, having been the object of various occupations through the centuries, the city's buildings were new, re-erected as they had been after the terrible earthquake that had shaken it more than thirty years ago. It had many more cultivated fields, pasturage and mills than the site of ancient Zion. Unlike Jerusalem it had two rivers, the Orontes and the Parmenius, which flowed golden across the land. Like Jerusalem, however, Antioch was ready for war. Its ramparts climbed Mons Silpius and surrounded the sprawl of the city. The citadel itself was warded by defence systems, its walls climbing high. The castle, standing on a salient with its gateways and battlements, appeared impregnable. The waterways, too, were guarded, sentinels patrolling their lengths.

Merlin took this all in and at the same time didn't look, held his head down. He moved quickly through the small, empty streets, the houses leaning together. He made his way across dark alleyways and empty market squares. He hurried along turfed roads and past private gardens that smelt like sage and germander. Wrapped in his cloak, he moved like a shadow along pathways fringed by imposing houses and humble ramshackle huts. He ghosted along the closed down workshops of the suq. He encountered newly erected churches, their crosses wobbling in the night wind, and old mosques whose mirhabs were surmounted by cupolas.

When he came upon the inner citadel's gates, Merlin saw the guards. There were four of them, wearing the insignia of Count Raymond, a red lion on a white background. Putting the guards asleep with a few murmured words, Merlin slipped into the heart of the city.

The Hospitallers' headquarters was a tall stone building with a flat roof. It had a church attached to it and an ample entrance guarded by men at arms wearing a white cross on a black robe. With a curt spell Merlin distracted them and slipped past unnoticed. Once he was inside nobody would mind him. Plenty of sick people in search of help roamed the hospital at all hours; sometimes new mothers would abandon their unwanted children at the door. As expected, he encountered no obstacles. The hall had ribbed vaults and massive pillars, the ceilings standing over eighteen feet high. Two opposite flight of stairs led to different wings.

Merlin went to the east wing, where patients affected by long-term illnesses were housed. He walked the length of an arched corridor and found a room in which ten sick men rested. He paced along it, his step light, till he came to a bed occupied by a person he knew.

He sat by him and waited for him to wake. When the leper did, Merlin said, “Well met.”

The leper sat up, eyes full of recognition. “My rescuer.” He made a motion as if to touch Merlin but clearly stopped himself. “You don't know how grateful I am.”

“I'll have none of that.” Merlin didn't want to dismiss the leper's feelings, but he didn't feel comfortable as the recipient of so much gratitude. He had done so little and even now he was here for selfish reasons. “Tell me instead how you are faring.”

“I'm well.” The leper showed Merlin his bandages. “These brothers Hospitallers know their herb lore and they're not timid when it comes to touching me.”

“Are they feeding you well?” Merlin thought the leper looked well and by no means malnourished, but he wanted to know from the man himself.

“Oh yes,” the leper said. “Thrice a day.”

Merlin shifted on his stool. “Next time I'll bring you something. Tell me what you wish for and I'll fetch it to for you.”

The leper thought a while then spoke. “Some flowers. I can't smell them as well as I used to, blasted illness, but I like the look of them.”

“Then flowers you shall have.” Merlin made a concerted effort to smile. “You shall have daisies and marigolds, iris and lupines.”

“You sound cheerful.” The leper cocked his head. “And yet I read worry in your eyes.”

“Tis nothing.” Merlin batted the notion away.

“'Tis something I can tell.”

Merlin debated opening up. Before he could reach a thought-out decision he'd blurted out, “Would you betray a man who doesn't deserve it?”

The leper watched him closely, not speaking for long lapses of time. “You don't strike me as someone who would act basely.”

Merlin hoped it was so, yet taking into account what he was considering doing he wasn't so sure anymore. “And yet...”

“Do you have a reason for this action?” the leper asked, “or is it something you'd do just because you can?”

Merlin couldn't reveal too much of his plans and doings as he was sworn to secrecy. Their brotherhood moved in the shadows and it was because it did that they were still around, seeking alliances, trying to achieve their goals for the future. “It's the former.”

“I see you won't tell me the reason why this weighs down on you,” the leper told him. “But if you say you have grounds for this action, then I believe you.”

Merlin took notice of what the leper wasn't saying. “But you still wouldn't give me your blessing.”

“I don't know what this is about, remember.” The person in the next bed over turned around, snoring softly. The leper waited him out before reprising. “I can't speak on this without any knowledge.”

“Let's say it's for a good cause.” One that involved the destiny of mankind. “An important cause I've devoted my life to.”

The leper took this in calmly. “While I can't approve or disapprove, I can say that I trust you to make the right choice by all.”

Merlin peered up. It was almost as if the leper knew everything there was to know. Of course that wasn't true. Merlin had made sure to keep vague, even so he felt as though he had had a response of sorts. “Thank you for your words,” Merlin said.

Outside the Hospitallers' base the street was as deserted as it had been before, but this time a light rain wetted the road's paving. Merlin pulled up his hood and stalked back towards Antioch's periphery, a decision brewing in his heart.


	10. A New Addition

Antioch, 1146

The line of horses kicked up a fine golden dust as they made for the commandery's gateway. They were caparisoned with a body cloth bearing the colours of the Temple, white with a red cross for the knights, black with a white cross for the sergeants, and their reins were solid leather, but soft to the hand. The saddle were polished to a shine, without a scratch on them, and the harness jingled as the cavalcade continued across the street.

As the procession galloped on, people moved away so the horses could pass. Among the crowd they were clearing there were merchants with their donkeys and cargoes, women, some of them veiled, who tugged their children away from the stampeding horses, and urchins, who unlike their counterparts had no parents to think of their safety.

The road teemed with individuals from all strata of life, rich and poor, bourgeois and clergy. As he road towards his goal, Arthur saw flashes of rich cloaks died with the most beautiful dyes from the East, and hints of lowlier clothing, homespuns tunics and torn mantles. Together they created a cacophony of colour, which, mixed with the different languages spoken, made for a varied medley to lull the ears.

The company didn't dwell on the stragglers though. As soon as with a loud creak the grating came up, glinting in the sun, the cortège slipped through. 

They found themselves in the commandery's courtyard, a large rectangular space shaded in the south by the stable awning and decorated in the middle by a large fountain that, however, spilled little water. Along the south side, a smithy's booth had been erected. Lay servants worked at an anvil, bending the metal with their hammers, sweat coursing down their overworked bodies, cooling the newly forged swords in water barrels that steamed. 

Next door the farrier was shoeing Arthur's horse, the one he'd taken with him from Normandy. He was flattening the sole with a rasp, smoothing the hoof. 

Arthur dismounted, letting a groom attend his current mount, and went to the farrier. He was a grey, bent man, with scarred hands and a complexion tanned by years in the punishing sun. When Arthur approached, he was aligning the shoe so that it sat perfectly against the edge of the horse's hoof, while holding nails in his mouth and a hammer in his hand.

“So,” Arthur said, slipping off his heavy duty gloves to pat Hengroen on the muzzle, “how's my horse faring?”

“Though this is a fine war horse, he's not used to the nature of the soil here, stomping and galloping could have damaged his hooves.” The farrier drove a first nail through the hoof. He did so at an outward angle, so that the tip wouldn't pierce the delicate hoof wall. “The edges are worn down and his front legs took a hit. But I'm putting new shoes, sir Knight. That might give him his balance back.” 

Arthur's eyebrows momentarily connected, lines forming above them. “But will he be fine?”

“Oh that he will.” The farrier used the claw end of his hammer to bend the tip of the nail over against the hoof wall. Then he bent the tip over with a pair of well-oiled nippers. “Just give him time.” He eyed Arthur's other mount. The sorrel was lathered with sweat from the ride, but he was beautiful to look at, its size daunting, its bearing proud.

Arthur gazed at the sorrel too. “I just want him well again.”

The farrier gave him a sharp nod, before spitting out another nail. It was clear the conversation on his side was over, so Arthur gave Hengroen a last pat, slung his gloves over his shoulder, and marched towards the shadow of the portico. 

Palms grew either side of it, heavy with golden dates. Some fell on the benches that lined the arcade, opening ripely, and spilling over the slats. 

In front of it knights milled about, going about their duties, their chainmail coifs pulled back so they wouldn't bake inside them. Sergeants crossed the courtyard, either moving towards the main buildings or the outer sheds that were part of the compound. 

As the bustling persons moved aside a figure revealed itself to the view. Judging by height and body shape, it was a man. He was tall, covered from head to ankle by a russet cloak cinched with a worn leather belt at the waist. Shadowing his features, his hood was up. Even so Arthur knew the man was looking at him.

Instinctively, his hand went to his sword, but he still moved towards the personage waiting for him. 

When Arthur was up close, the man pulled his head back, so that his face was level with Arthur's, but Arthur still couldn't make out his features, for the sun blinding him to them. The silent man seemed to understand, for he lowered his hood, showing his physiognomy. It was Merlin. His hair was dusty from the road as was his face, and he looked a little worn around the edges, his muscles taut, his eyes circled with grey. 

Upon sight of Arthur, he smiled though. “Sir Knight.”

Arthur stood stock still. He couldn't believe his senses weren't betraying him. Ever since meeting Merlin, Arthur had been off and on thinking about him. He had wondered whether Merlin had healed well from the scrapes he had got during the fray in the market square. And he'd asked himself what Merlin would say about his own daily activities. Since all out war hadn't broken out yet, Arthur had lately only been defending the roads and guarding his superiors as they met the authorities of the land. He believed Merlin could see nothing wrong with any of that. And now he was here Arthur couldn't help but secretly assume he'd conjured him himself with his stray thoughts. But that couldn't be. Holding such a belief was akin to adhering to witchcraft and as a Christian he couldn't do that. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Merlin said, shrugging his shoulders, as if his presence in a Templar compound wasn't odd. “Why else should I be here?”

Though that made an odd kind of sense, Arthur couldn't help but question the details of Merlin's presence. “How did you make it past the gate? They don't just let anyone in.”

“I just walked in.” Merlin looked the other way, at the tide of knights passing by.

Arthur couldn't believe it. With Nur al Din on the path of war, all Templars were on the look-out. Guards at the gate stopped everyone, from visiting knights from other camps, to ambassadors, to merchants come with the wares needing to nourish the whole commandery. How Merlin could have slipped in unheeded was a mystery. But on that head he didn't query further. Something stopped him from doing so. Instead he said, “Why did you want to see me?”

Merlin rolled his shoulders back and cleared his throat. “I'm looking for a job.”

Air whooshed out of Arthur's lungs in an uncomfortable exhalation and his shoulders slumped. “I have no leverage with any lord or magnate here in the Holy Land. I'm brand new to it.” Lancelot and Everard were still teaching him the ropes and he had done no valorous deed that had made him well known. “However much I regret it--” And Arthur did. Merlin's altruism deserved some reward and he could give none. “--I can't help you.”

“That's not what I meant.” Merlin shook his head.

Arthur widened his eyes. He suspected he wasn't being very perceptive and failing to catch Merlin's drift. “I beg your pardon?”

“There are plenty of lay servants about.” Merlin scanned the scuttling servants that ran about the courtyard. Some were carrying bags of laundry, others piles of armour waiting to be cleaned. Some hurried hither and thither, whilst the attendants deputed to the kitchens busied themselves at the wells or in the far off orchards. “I could be yours.”

Arthur laughed. “I took a vow of poverty. I can hardly support a servant.”

Seemingly deep in thought, Merlin gnawed on the side of his lower lip. “I require very little. Only room and boarding.”

The thought was tempting. Though Arthur didn't need a servant exactly, he would be happy with some help. As a the heir to a title, Arthur hadn't done much in the past in the way of housekeeping. Lately he'd taken to mending those shirts of his that had been slashed during sword practice, but he had done such a poor job of it even the men at arms had noticed. And laughed. Besides, he'd like to have someone to talk to at the end of the day. As a man of some standing, he couldn't properly unburden himself, but he could indulge in some idle chat every now and then. Though unlike some monks, they hadn't taken a vow of silence, Templars tended to be brooding and not very talkative. He couldn't have that with them. Even so Arthur couldn't bend. “I'm sorry. I can't take a servant.”

“But--”

“I'm sure you'll have much better luck elsewhere,” Arthur said, “and I sincerely wish you it.”

Merlin nodded. He took a big breath, one that seemed to rattle his body, then he seemed to accept Arthur's verdict, for his face relaxed and so did his frame. He look oddly relieved at having been refused. Still looking oddly satisfied, he about turned, and passed Arthur on his way to the gateway, which stood behind him. 

Watching him go, Arthur sighed, then shook his head and moved towards the interior of the commandery, where his quarters were. 

The stone corridor was vaulted and narrow, seemingly having no end in sight. Wall torches burned brightly and showed the way ahead. At regular intervals archways led to other passageways, which in their turn steered towards the central body of the building, with the Grand Master's quarters, the Marshal chambers, the refectory and the Chapter House. 

Arthur's footsteps were echoing loudly when a call stopped him in his tracks. It was Merlin again, shouting, “Wait.”

Though he wanted to turn around, smile and stay, Arthur didn't. He made himself go on. If he hired Merlin, his brothers might look at him askance, consider him decadent. Fresh off his induction he was trying to establish a good relationship with them, to be accepted. It was of tantamount importance to him. He couldn't have been a good son, but he meant to be a good Templar, one whom his fellow knights could respect, hold in high regard. Aside from that one of the other Templars might go to the Master with a complaint about Arthur's self-indulgence. Though others had servants that might still happen for Arthur was new and supposed to keep his head down in the beginning, make a show of virtue. Arthur intended to make a good impression on his superiors so as to be chosen for most of the missions. 

So he stomped on, his soles hardly touching the stone floor he hurried so.

Nonetheless Merlin nearly caught up with him, skipping right behind him. “I wouldn't have asked if I didn't really need it.”

“I thought I gave you an answer.” Arthur gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. 

“One you don't believe in it yourself,” Merlin told him, somehow guessing at Arthur's state of mind.

The corridor turned leftwards and Arthur followed it. In the distance the door of his dormitory loomed wide. Arthur wished he could shut it on Merlin so he no longer had to listen to his moving pleading. Coming from a man of such honour, it tore at the heart strings. “That's none of your concern.”

“Well, giving that I'm asking it is.” Merlin kept trotting just a hand's width behind him. “The more so since you know you're wrong.”

By now Arthur had reached his destination, but instead of opening the door, he leant his head against it. His shoulders deflated and a breath came out of him. “Would you even know how to serve a Templar? I'm not your average matron, nor your normal pampered lord.”

“I told you my Father joined the crusades,” Merlin said. Then with gusto he added, “I learnt how to clean a helmet, oil a sword, and how to make sure chainmail links don't break.”

Arthur opened the door and stalked inside his dormitory. He ought to have shared it with a senior knight of excellent repute, Sir Bedivere de la Motte, who had, legend had it, served during the first crusade and been there for the famed siege of Jerusalem. But he was old and sick now and had taken semi-fixed abode in the infirmary, where he was attended to by devoted monks, who took care of him as if he was one of the apostles.

Arthur's chamber was rectangular with curved upside niches above the simple beds that stood either side of it. A barred window admitted some light, which flooded in most potently at around noon. Two leather trunks with iron bolts served to stash away the knights' clothing but in Sir Bedivere's absence, Arthur had to admit he had grown slack. Instead of having been orderly put away, tunics and hose lay upon a rickety stool in an ungainly pile. Arthur's spare shield, sword and mace had been propped in a corner. His spare mantle had been tossed upon the bed, which had been left undone, the pillow indented. Counting on no inspection Arthur had been remiss in that regard.

Seeing this, Merlin began tidying the bed, pulling at the sheets' corners, and fluffing the pillow so it regained its natural shape. 

“I didn't give you that order.” Arthur pointed an eyebrow.

“No, your pride stopped you,” Merlin told him, as he chuckled to himself, a grin stamped on his lips, 

Arthur couldn't say that wasn't true. He had to hide his smile behind his hand so as to make sure Merlin wouldn't notice it. He even scowled somewhat. “I didn't say you were hired.”

“No.” Merlin moved over to the stool upon which Arthur's clothing lay discarded. He smelled the first item, scrunched up his nose, then threw it behind his shoulders. The other items he folded carefully, so that not a crease showed on them. “But you might as well.”

“Give me one good reason why.” Arthur held up a finger.

“Because you need some help.” Merlin gave the chamber an unsubtle once over. 

Strangely enough Merlin was hitting close to the mark with all his remarks. Arthur did need someone and not just to bring him up to speed with his more homely tasks. Arthur was too new to his role, too inexperienced in the way of the order to have settled yet. The other knights, Arthur thought, wouldn't understand his plight and saw everything through the prism of Temple rule. Merlin didn't. His was a fresh viewpoint Arthur hadn't contemplated enough. In addition to that he was clearly a good soul down on his luck. Not helping him would be close to a sin. Merlin, Arthur thought, deserved to be given that chance and his company, though challenging and bizarre, wasn't unwelcome to Arthur. There had to have been a reason why he had been in Arthur's thoughts the way he had. Perhaps God meant to ease Arthur's task by giving him the boon of a helping hand. He couldn't disregard that. Templar knights bowed to God and so did he, however he'd seen the deity before. 

“All right, I'll hire you,” Arthur said. “But it's merely a trial.”

Merlin's eyes exuded a happiness shadowed by some other feeling Arthur couldn't quite fathom.


	11. Searching the Commandery

Antioch, 1146

 

For such a spare chamber, the room was in disarray. Sheets and bed covers pooled at the end of the bed. Tunic, loose hose, and belts had been bunched up and left in the middle of the floor. Discarded pieces of chain-mail and sundry armour rested in places they most certainly didn't belong. For some reason even the crucifix, that symbol of the Templars' belief, hung awry.   
Hands on his hips, Merlin contemplated it briefly. Though he had no belief in the Christ his fellow Westerners put so much stock by, he couldn't revile the faith, nor cast aspersions on it. He had been raised to respect all tenets that weren't his. He still remembered how he had got by that lesson and wouldn't forget.

Rain had been pouring and the long line of pilgrims had scarcely moved. Merlin had been soaked through, his clothing sticking to him like second skin, even his mother's hand wet and slippery. Perhaps because of the lightened hold, Merlin had let go and skipped ahead, lightning painting itself above the walls of Jerusalem. Distracted, his mother didn't call after him, so Merlin used the opportunity to slip away from her and skip ahead along the line. 

He didn't mean to sneak into the city before he was supposed to – the guards with their powerful swords put him off that – but he still intended to cram his eyes full with the sights and sounds of this place. A merchant sat in a covered wagon whose roof was silken, danced around by attendants who walked at the snail's pace of the procession. A mother cradled her swaddled infant to her, the child suckling its finger. An old man lay on a litter; he was pale and grey, muttering incoherently where he lay stretched. 

The line moved up and with it the litter that carried him. Hand lax, the recumbent man dropped his crucifix. Merlin ran up to it. It was a strange object to him. Though it was small and wooden, fit even for his small palm, it didn't look like a toy. He was aware it had a different purpose, another use. He bent over to look at it. It was sinking in the mud occasioned by the downpour. With his foot, Merlin gave the object a poke. It shifted in the mud, so he nudged it again. Given that the thing didn't seem dangerous, Merlin bent down to pick it up. 

“Stop, Merlin!” his mother said, shielding herself against the rain with her meagre veil. “That's a sacred object to some. Where did you get it?”

Despite being little, Merlin knew his mother's each and every tone and could tell this one didn't bode well. He gulped and made himself say, “That man.”

His mother cupped her mouth. “Give it back, Merlin. Now!”

“But he dropped it.” Merlin tilted his head, not sure where his mother's vehemence came from. 

“That's of no import, Merlin,” his mother said, sharp but not angry anymore. “It's holy to him.”

Merlin didn't understand how or why and said so. 

His mother walked to him and let him hide his head in her skirts, cradling it. “We follow a different path from his but ours teaches us to respect those of others. As such you must honour that man's belief.”

Merlin's thoughts whirled chaotic and fast. He wasn't sure he got it all. He knew he had done something wrong and he understood that that had to do with belief and respect, but the wider implications escaped him. Still, Merlin's mother was to be trusted when it came to truth and justice. She just knew everything. 

Skipping ahead to catch up with the litter, Merlin extended his hand, the object of cult in his clutches. Sticking his other thumb in his mouth, he said around it, “This is yours.”

The sick man fixed pale, rheumy eyes on him. With trembling fingers he took back the cross, kissing it with shaking lips. He continued muttering words Merlin scarcely comprehended, his gaze unfocusing just as Merlin's memory of the event did.

When Merlin concentrated his gaze again he was in the Templar commandery, no longer lost in that scene from long ago. Determined to set things to right, he knelt on the bed and reached up to straighten the crucifix, patting Christ's leg. When he was done, he came to stand in the middle of Arthur's chamber. 

He ought to set it to rights. As a newly-hired servant, he was certainly expected to tidy up and make the room appear presentable. But that wasn't really his duty. He had another task to fulfil. That came first and foremost. So he would have to cut down on the times required to fix the mess the chamber's proprietor had left in his wake.

But he was no idiot. He wasn't about to get caught red-handed in Templar head-quarters. It would be like going up to the Grand Master and asking him to please burn him at the stake. So he looked around first, then went to the door and locked it. The sound the key made when turning was ominous, reverberating inside and out. 

Usually, the brothers didn't lock themselves up. It was seen as a secretive and thus an unseemly action. No Templar would conceal any secret from any of his brethren and as theft was unheard of in the commandery the need for keys was superfluous. If Merlin locked the door, that was to be considered suspicious. He could only hope no one noticed that Merlin had secured himself inside. If discovered, he was sure to be sacked and punished. The punishment, even if corporal, didn't scare him. But if he lost his job, he would also lose all access to the Templar headquarters in Antioch. 

Turning around, he lifted a hand and muttered a spell. Since he didn't dare incant loudly, he did so under his breath. The bed made itself, covers stretching out without a wrinkle, the pillow puffing itself up. The discarded items of clothing flew into the trunk lining the room and the brooms started a sweeping motion that got the stone floor shining as though it was marble. 

In no time all the objects that were out of place found their proper location and no dust or dirt were left. When the chamber was spotless, Merlin grinned to himself. As though they had done some physical labour, he rubbed his hands and opened the door again. 

Peeking out, he realised there was no one about. Arthur and a lot of other knights were on a reconnaissance mission and most other recruits were now busy in the courtyard, training and going about their jobs. 

Unseen, Merlin slipped out of the room. He passed a series of shut doors. These, he knew because of the snooping he had done previously, were dormitories, and empty at this time of day. He had no reason to search these rooms as no single knight would be trusted with the keeping of such a relic as the Cup of Life. 

So Merlin walked on, hands behind his back, air idle. He mustn't look furtive. If caught, he must have the air of a lazy servant, squandering the day away, not a spy. Arriving at the end of the corridor, he made for the heart of the building. Further away from the dormitories, there was more traffic. Sergeants went about their business; full knights strode by, each doing the task assigned him. A Benedictine monk walked by with his head in his cowl, his sandals worn.

Though Merlin's conscience prickled and his hands were sweating, he must have looked normal, because nobody stopped to enquire what he was doing. Unchallenged, he wandered on, bypassing corridors and communal areas. 

By and by he came upon the Chapter House. Its doors were closed to outsiders but since no one was making use of the space there were no guards posted outside. This was lucky because Merlin preferred keeping his powers on the down low as much as he could. Still he couldn't exactly stroll inside. As a lay servant, he had no business there.

Looking left and right, Merlin made as if to move, but two buff Templars stalked by. Luckily, they were busy conferring about Nur ad Din's latest moves, his having sent envoys to Unur of Damascus, and thus ignored Merlin entirely. 

Once they had left the vicinity, Merlin tried the door to the Chapter House. It was open. An arched leaded window ornate with the figures of saints let in the light. At its foot an altar stood. It was bare, unclothed, unadorned. Rows of benches lined the space, well oiled, not a speck of dust on them. A tabernacle-like structure was half concealed at the other end of the room.

Pacing to it, Merlin tried opening it. This one was, instead, locked. “Mysterious,” he murmured, eyes glowing as his magic worked the lid open. Merlin's lungs deflated. “Well, it would have been too easy.”

Having made sure to secure the tabernacle again, Merlin moved on. He searched the Chapter House's every nook and cranny, the cupboard containing sacred vestments that stood in one corner, the trapdoor under the altar that guarded golden vessels and silken paraphernalia, and the silver chest that sat at the base of one of the columns. The Cup of Life wasn't there. 

Then again Merlin hadn't thought it would be. The Templars would be idiots if they hid the Cup of Life there. 

Next he tried the Chapel. Given how many knights the commandery housed, the Chapel was smaller than Merlin had thought it would be, remote, cross in square in shape. It was a small chamber hewn out or rock, with a few pews, an altar, and a triptych hanging above it. While the altar and its ornaments were bare, the triptych shone golden, its blues rivalling that of the sea, its reds that of fire. It was done in the style of Byzantium, whose use was widespread in the Holy Land, and which Merlin had admired on multiple occasions.

Since this was a place of worship, Merlin went about his search with as much respect as he could. He paced the the stone floor in search of loose components that could be lifted to secrete objects in. No stone was loose or looked liked it could be moved. Dust had collected in the interstices too, signalling that nobody had touched those areas in a long while. When he was done with that, he searched the chest at the side of the altar. It was small and square, made of silver, with a mosaic on the top lid. Opening it was only possible with a key, which wasn't inserted in the lock. Thinking that whatever needed locking up was possibly the object he was looking for, Merlin muttered a spell. 

The lid sprang up, revealing objects wrapped in cloth. Merlin unwound the fabric around them. He unveiled a silver censor, and a folded pall. “Well, it couldn't be so easy.” 

With a sigh he closed the chest, and moved on to the altar. It was bare and unadorned. It was cut in one single block of marble and showed no receptacles anywhere. Merlin, however, studied the block of stone attentively and was rewarded when he noticed some scratch marks at the base of the altar. There were many of them, concentric and worked deep in the flooring. Given that the stone altar was heavy, that seemed strange. 

So someone had moved the altar for some reason. Why would that be? This was the only spot that could possibly fit the chapel's dimensions. Merlin frowned. This was odd and it deserved a closer inspection. His fingertips tingling, Merlin placed his hands on the altar and pushed. He did so with the power of his mind as well as with that of his muscles. When the altar didn't shift, he used more of his magic, pushing strands of it outwards. Eventually, the altar shifted, revealing treads spiralling downwards. 

Route revealed, Merlin started going down, but once he had descended a few steps, he realised it was too dark to see around. Since he wasn't acquainted with his whereabouts proceeding in the dark seemed like pure madness. With a few words he summoned a light, which shone blue right behind him, and showed him the way.

There were more steps which ended in a corridor that stretched ahead for many yards. Though Merlin had been at the commandery for a couple of weeks, he couldn't say he'd learnt its lay-out by heart. He was no great tactician that way. This was why he had no idea where he was going, though his magic pushed him onwards. Wherever he was directing his steps, he felt he was getting closer to his goal.

Stepping over masonry debris and ducking away from spider webs, he finally reached a spiral staircase whose steps were worn and ancient but strangely enough not covered in dust. He climbed and at the end of the staircase he found a wooden door with a square cutting at eye level, which allowed Merlin to look into the room.

It was spacious and bright, with more furniture than Merlin had ever seen put together. At a desk a man was sitting. A single look at his clothing, at the more ornate cross on his mantle, and the bejewelled crucifix hanging from his neck, told Merlin that he had stumbled into the Grand Master himself, Robert de Craon. He was old and actually appeared positively ancient, with a white beard that reached his chest, milky eyes surrounded by a sea of lines, and bushy eyebrows that went every which way.

Why de Craon was at the commandery was not known to Merlin, but his presence certainly meant something. Maybe he was there because of the rumours Antioch would fall. Or maybe he had come because the Cup of Life was here. It was possible. 

When de Barres looked to the door, Merlin ducked so he wasn't spotted. Once a suitable lapse of time had passed, Merlin peeped again.

The Grand Master was no longer alone. While Merlin had crouched, the Commander of Antioch had entered. Though fleetingly, Merlin had seen him about the commandery time and again. He had always a busy air, tempered by martial steel.

When he started speaking, Merlin made sure to listen. “Grand Master, our men repulsed an attack from one of Nur ad Din avant guards.”

“That's to be expected,” de Craon said, patting down his wispy beard. “I trust they were repelled.”

The Commander paced up and down. “They were. But for how long? We have to ask ourselves that.”

“We have to pray we'll find the strength to oppose them again.” de Craon clutched at his crucifix.

“What if they take Antioch too?” The Commander stopped in his tracks and put his hands on his hips. 

“In that case we'll plan ahead.”

“It seems to me that we should act now,” the Commander said. “We bear a responsibility to our brothers as well as to Christianity. We need--”

When the Commander's gaze fell upon the door, Merlin went on his haunches again, hoping he hadn't been spotted. For a few moments the conversation died down and Merlin was sure he had been noticed. He didn't know how he'd get out of this one if he had. He might have powers that rendered him harder to tackle than many a person, but then again he was only a man. Should he flee now he had the chance? But he needed to listen! What if they weren't only talking about military strategy? Meanwhile the seconds ticked on and nobody surprised him in his hiding place. 

The conversation reprised.

“We don't need to do anything.” The Grand Master sounded weary but sure. “We mustn't make a move yet.”

“But we owe a duty to--”

Merlin wondered if they were talking about the Cup of Life. They could be, but their discussion was too general at the moment to gather any real information. But on the chance they were Merlin had to stay and eavesdrop. Of course that heightened the chances of his being caught spying. Well, there was a reason he was here. He had to risk it. So thinking, Merlin peered through the hole again.

“We do.” The Grand Master nodded to himself. “That goes without saying. But with all this warfare going on we don't have enough men to deploy.”

“Our brothers would die for--”

The commander was interrupted by a knock on the door. A sergeant stepped in, his dark tunic contrasting with the bright whites of his superiors' mantles. “A weapons shipment has come from Tripoli, the Commander is needed.”

The Commander shifted his weight, sighed, then said, “If you'll excuse me, Grand Master.”

The Grand Master dismissed Sergeant and Commander with a gesture. When he was alone, he cupped his head in his hands, his whole body slumping against the desk he was sitting at. 

Merlin waited for the old Templar to do something, maybe reveal the Cup of Life's hiding place, but before long de Craon fell asleep in his chair, snoring so loudly Merlin could hear from the other side of the door. 

Debating what to do, Merlin stayed hidden at the top of the step. He considered entering the room and searching for the Cup of Life. If anybody had it, it would be the Grand Master. But although the man was sleeping, it didn't follow that he wouldn't wake if the chamber he was in was gone through with a fine tooth comb. Merlin was lucky nobody had noticed him so far but that didn't mean he ought to be more foolhardy. 

Noticing that the light creeping in in the Grand Master's chamber had darkened, Merlin realised it had grown rather late. Looking for the Cup had taken him hours and he'd come away empty-handed. Arthur would probably be back soon and Merlin had better be there when he did or Arthur would get suspicious.

Regretting that he couldn't do more as yet, Merlin retraced his steps. Fortunately, though they were all pious, no brother had come to the chapel while Merlin was in the secret passage. With his magic Merlin put the altar back in place and rushed across the compound towards Arthur's room. He'd scarcely got there than the sound of boots tramping along the passageway made itself heard.

In an ungainly heap, Merlin threw himself on the bed and closed his eyes.

The door creaked open and a footfall echoed, their sound crescendoing as the person who had entered neared the bed. 

Merlin made sure not to open his eyes. For added credibility, he snored. Now if it was Arthur, nothing would happen. But if someone had followed him after his caper, then he'd just rendered himself more vulnerable. 

Arthur spoke, “Ah Merlin, what do I have to do with you?” Merlin felt the warmth as something soft – likely a blanket – was put on top of him. “Well, at least you did sort my room out.” He paused. Merlin envisioned him looking around the place and hoped he'd be satisfied with Merlin's tidying up. “Today was such a hard day. You don't know what--”

Though Merlin should have kept up the pretence of sleeping, he couldn't refrain from heeding Arthur's words. For him to admit that his day had taken its toll on him was quite a lot. Merlin hadn't been serving Arthur long, but it didn't take years of contact with him to find out that he kept his feelings close. The fact he had owned up to fatigue was enough to concern Merlin. Yawning and smacking his lips, he pretended to have just woken up. “What did you say?” he said faux sleepily.

As if caught red-handed doing something wrong, Arthur jumped back. “Nothing, I--” He frowned deeply, his face smeared with dirt and sweat, some blood caked on the side of it. “You know, I didn't hire you to fall asleep on the job.”

Merlin ignored the words, sat up and reached out with his hands, touching Arthur's face. “You're bleeding,” he said, when his hand got tinged with blood.

Arthur went red about the face, intercepted his fingers, and stammered words Merlin failed to understand.

Knowing he had to do something, Merlin jumped up. “I'll clean the cut.”

“I said,” Arthur said, stressing the words, “that it's nothing.”

Merlin refused to listen to Arthur's stoic posturing. Though he sported no other wounds, Merlin didn't mean to leave the one he did have like that. Without adding further commentary, Merlin left to fetch some water from the well. When he returned, he wetted a cloth, sat a protesting Arthur down, and started dabbing at his face.

Pale and drawn, Arthur suppressed a hiss. “Merlin, you're as delicate as a bull.”

“Pardon my lack of skills,” Merlin said, “I thought you said it was nothing.”

“It is nothing!” Arthur moved away so the cloth was no longer touching his face. “I hardly need nursing.”

Because the thought seemed to appal Arthur, Merlin laughed. “Tell me though, how did you come by this?”

“There was a skirmish with riders in the pay of Nur ad Din,” Arthur said. “They knew what they were doing but didn't seem actually as intent in killing us as they were in putting a spoke in our wheels.”

“Well, that's good.” Merlin wished there was no war, no battles, that the people of the Holy Land could live together in harmony, but he knew it was more complicated than that. “I've heard they're very good fighters. You're lucky you didn't die.”

“I'm a knight Templar.” Arthur sat more rigidly, with his shoulders set wide in a hard line. “I vowed I would die for the Temple.”

“Well, I hope there's never the need for you to.” Merlin might be lying through his teeth about the reason why he was Arthur's servant. But he meant his words as much as he owed devotion to his real cause. He didn't want Arthur to die. More, he would make sure he didn't. He knew Merlin's own betrayal would hurt Arthur some day, and though that was inevitable, he hoped disappointment was the only set back he suffered. 

Arthur cocked his head into the cloth and searched Merlin's gaze. Eyes shining with wonder and guilelessness, he asked, “Why would you care?”

Merlin was hiding too much to be straightforward about this, so he said, “I'd be out of a job.”

Arthur laughed and relaxed under Merlin's ministrations. When his face was clean and the cut dressed to the best of Merlin's abilities, Arthur turned towards Merlin. “Since you're such a good nurse, would you know how to take away my neck pain? It's been plaguing me for days.”

With a lightened spirit at Arthur's sheepish request, Merlin set to work.


	12. A Night's Excursion

Antioch, November, 1146

 

The street was dark and long, its end swallowed by the absence of light. The buildings along it were short and ramshackle, their doors hanging on loose hinges, their windows few and narrow, with no balconies to speak of and masonry that seemed to crumble on sight. They followed each other in loose patterns, giving way to open spaces that were neither gardens nor orchards but small suburban wastelands where grass grew in short patches eaten away by dark earth. Dogs and cats roamed the area. They were lone feral creatures that shied away from human contact, their eyes bright in the night, their ears and tails erect. They were as mistrustful as she was, stealing away at night in a city she didn't know, and in which she'd only recently come to dwell thanks to machinations that had allowed her to become a guest of Baron Ranulf and his wife so she could follow her mentor, Merlin, around.

Morgana adjusted her cloak around her, so that it enveloped more of her body, so that it covered more of her face. She wasn't cold; the night was too mild for that. But she did feel out of place here, in a town she had only passed through on occasion, one whose lay-out and shape she scarcely remembered from previous visits. She was suspicious of all shadows, she mistrusted each and every turning. She wished she didn't have to skulk around. She wished she didn't have to test her mettle every time she acted. 

She didn't know whether she had enough courage to do this, whether she was the person most suited for this. Though she was trying to cope, she wasn't sure the cracks inside her wouldn't show. She didn't mean them to. She wanted to look as though she was in control; not to let others know that she was adrift in a sea of doubt.

Yet, every time that same doubt assailed her, she remembered Merlin's words. She played them out to herself, recollecting each and every one of them. She had a role. She could help. She had all the power in the world. She just had to refine its uses. 

As she thought about how that would happen, about the future, she straightened, stood taller. As it fluttered around her feet, her cloak scarcely impeded her advance. She took balder steps, getting ahead in the darkness as though it was broad daylight.

This time instead of trying to map out her progress in her head, matching all the twists and turns to the lay out of the city, she let her instincts take over. She entered the poorest district of Antioch with nary a fear, navigating its streets with ease. If she didn't think, she could let her inner resources take over and they were leading her towards her destination.

The road ahead of her narrowed to a little slit placed between two houses. At the end of it stood a fence. It was taller than she was by a head, the rails somewhat loose, though they would allow only a mouse to slip in. 

As Morgana searched with her hands, she felt strands of power left in the wake of a spell. She touched the rail that oozed the most of it and it came free with just a little push. Ducking, she made herself small and passed through. Once she had made sure her cloak wasn't caught on any splinter, she put the rail back in place. 

She found herself in the middle of a little field. Though she was no expert, it didn't look as though it was cultivated. There were no budding vegetables, no burgeoning plants. A few stalks stuck out of the ground, but they were dry and bore no fruit. The moonlight washing over them made them look eerie. 

In the south corner, closer to the opposite side of the fence stood a shack. It was slightly bigger than average, with a roof that sloped on one side and a window covered in tanned hides. No light seeped out from within, but Morgana knew she must get there.

She found the door, a low one with a bolt and chain strangely sitting on the outside. She took a breath and knocked. 

Without anybody touching it, the door swung to, and she entered.

Inside a light was shining. Morgana didn't stop and wonder why it didn't show outside. She knew what was at work. The glow brightened a simple interior. On the walls common tools hung, hammers, chisels, trowels, shears. A spade and a rake leant against the same vertical surface. Half empty sacks lay on the floor, partially deflated. In the middle of the space was a rectangular table set with a plate and drinking vessel. 

Against the table Merlin was leaning. “You're a bit late.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “Did I interrupt your dinner?”

Merlin laughed. “I saw fit to feed myself while I waited.”

“I couldn't sneak out of the palace before everyone had retired for the night.” Morgana had waited and waited, impatient to get going, but the candles had lasted long and everybody seemed in a convivial mood. Her hosts in particular had grown chatty while she was only looking forward to the time they'd go to their bedrooms. “And then I had to hurry Gwen through our night time routines. She wouldn't go till she had brushed my hair a hundred times.”

Merlin made an amused face. “Well, I had to fend off checks too, you know, and Templars are more scary than a lady in waiting.”

“You don't know Gwen.” Morgana had meant to retain her composure but couldn't help herself. Her lips curled into a smile. “She's had an adventurous youth and she's quite feisty.”

“I'm sure that she is.” Merlin pushed off the table. “Well, shall we start with our training, my Lady?”

Morgana doffed her cloak, and readied herself for her lesson. Merlin moved towards her and placed himself at her side. 

“What do you want me to do?” she asked. 

“First of all I want you to find your inner core.” Merlin shifted beside her.

Morgana turned her head. “You always say that but I'm never sure where to look.”

Shaking his head, Merlin sighed. “I can't tell you that. Each one of us is unique. But if you concentrated a little instead of arguing, you'd already have done it.”

Though her first instinct was to indeed engage in a dispute with Merlin, she refrained. She had accepted to come her of her own free will. She was taking lessons because she knew Merlin could teach her what she needed to know. Putting a spoke in his wheel would be detrimental to her. 

Taking a big breath, she closed her eyes. That way she could focus on her own inner workings rather than external events. As soon as her sight was so impeded, she started seeing bursts of colour and inside these flickering images and tall flames. Instead of recoiling, she moved towards them. Her fear of them vanished the moment she was enveloped by them and didn't burn. On the contrary, she revelled in them. They exalted her spirit and strengthened her. 

When her eyes reopened, she felt her power at her fingertips. “Was this what you had in mind?”

Merlin gave her a mirror so small it fit into her palm. Its surface was uneven and had no sheen. “My eyes--” She didn't recoil; a strange fascination overtook her.

“They're glowing,” Merlin finished her thought for her. “That's what happens when you use your powers.”

“What can I do with it?” Morgana was already dreaming ahead. Could she bend the world around her? Could she vanquish armies? Could she perhaps mete justice?

As though he had guessed what was going on with her, Merlin took a breath. “Why don't we focus on controlling your powers?”

First steps first, right. She had to go about this wisely. “So what do I do?”

“Why don't you float that--” He pointed to the jug that sat on the table. “--here?”

Morgana sighted the jug. It was a very non-descript piece of crockery. She had barely noticed it before. But now she had to concentrate on it. She debated closing her eyes again, but she knew that if she wanted to move it, she had to keep track of the object. All her attention went to it. She pictured it in her mind, willing it to move, picturing it as it crossed the hut. But as much as she commanded it to shift and come to her, it only wobbled in place, failing to budge an inch.

Morgana's shoulders sloped. “I can't do it.”

“You can do this and more,” Merlin said. “You just need to concentrate a bit more.”

Privately Morgana thought that if she concentrated any more than this she'd burst a blood vessel. She, however, didn't say that. Merlin was teaching her because he saw potential in her. If she provoked him, he would simply stop. And she needed to learn as much as she needed to breathe. So she put all her thoughts into moving that jug. It shook again, this time more potently, as though it was buffeted by an earthquake. Morgana was starting to believe this would be another failure, when the jug floated over, landing in her hands. “Want a drink?” Morgana put up an eyebrow.

“Ah, ah, very funny, Morgana.” Though he could have used his powers to do it, Merlin put the jug in place with his own hands. When he came back to Morgana, he said, “Now I want you to try something harder.”

Morgana didn't know how she had managed to obey the simple order Merlin had given her before, she didn't think she'd succeed now. But her father had often told her that success was nothing but posturing. Take up a commanding attitude and people would believe you could perform miracles. “Test me, Druid.”

Merlin moved to stand in front of her, arms crossed. “I want you to attack me.”

“You want me to what?” Morgana's voice, she was afraid, rose in pitch. 

“I want you--” Merlin repeated the words slowly for emphasis. “--to be able to put down an enemy.” He paused and winked. “Just try not to kill me.”

Morgana froze, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. She couldn't do that! Merlin was her teacher and she dared hope he was also a friend. Their sessions had added a lot to her life; they were giving it a meaning and a purpose. She now knew herself better than she ever had. “I refuse to harm you.”

“You won't be harming me!” Merlin smiled, his body lax with lack of worry. “But you must be trained in the arts of self defence.”

Morgana wanted to be able to fight. She wanted to help. So she saw why Merlin wanted her to do what he'd asked. Still, she knew him! She was his disciple. She couldn't just. “No, I can't.”

Lines crowded Merlin's face. “You know what mission we're on. You can't embark on it without due training.”

Morgana turned her face away.

“Then they were right.” Merlin's face darkened like the shadows that enveloped him. “All those people who said you were nothing but a spoiled brat. That women, especially high born ones, can't be fighters.”

A ball of rage grew inside Morgana. She could trace its beginnings and its development into a monstrous wave of blackness. She both feared and revelled in it. As Merlin continued, she fed all her emotions into it. She recognised them as dark, unformed spectres she had hidden even from herself. Because of the mass they formed, she couldn't sort them out, or name each. It didn't matter, by now the mass of feeling had a life of its own. It came careering out of her and impacted Merlin, sending him flying till he hit the nearest wall. 

When he slid down the it, she rushed to him, repenting her actions, fearing what she'd done. What if she'd killed him? What if she'd hurt him permanently? She remembered when one of her father's retainers hit his head during practice. His opponent had kicked him in the middle and sent him flying. The knight bulleted backwards and his head and back impacted the perimeter wall. He never was able to walk again. Morgana hoped her rash reaction hadn't deprived Merlin of his life, or caused such a serious injury. 

With trembling hands, she reached out for Merlin, calling his name.

Thankfully, he opened his eyes. At first they were unfocused but little by little they seemed to make her out. 

Before he could speak, she said, “I'm sorry I did this to you. How are you? Are you all right? Does everything feel as it should?”

Merlin appeared to process Morgana's questions. “Yes, I'm fine, Morgana. Just a little sore.”

Morgana didn't fully believe him; he was massaging his head as if that could alleviate his pain. “Can you stand?” 

As she helped him up, bearing some of his weight, Merlin climbed to his feet. “So needling you worked.” 

Morgana let go of Merlin. “Are you trying to say you didn't mean those things about women?”

Merlin shook his head and winced at the rash action. “I didn't. But I knew you'd get angry.”

She looked away. “That was mean.”

“I'm sorry but I had to be,” Merlin said. “Some of us only use their powers when anger moves them.”

“Oh so you decided to play on my feelings.” Morgana refused to look at Merlin. While it was true she now knew she had the wherewithal to react, defend herself, she didn't want to indulge in her rage. Still, If she thought about it she could surely repeat the process, knock him out flat. Merlin shouldn't have toyed with her emotions, or sought out her vulnerabilities. She sneered. “That was nice of you.”

“Look, I'm sorry, Morgana.” He bit his lip, which was curved in a repentant grimace. “But I had to. You would never have done it without that anger.”

Perhaps that was true. And Morgana did want to reach her goal. She hummed without committing to a comment.

“Can you forgive me?” Merlin asked, holding her hand and squeezing it.

Though she shouldn't have if she wanted to keep her resolve, Morgana looked into Merlin's eyes. They were full of remorse and kindness. His face was the picture of it. It appeared to her like a mirror of goodness. And though she had certainly resented his words, she also understood they had been meant to ruffle her feathers. It was scary that Merlin had understood her so well and a part of her wanted to isolate herself from him, turn away and go, discarding their joint project. But she was needed and she had never been before. Besides, she didn't like giving up. It wasn't in her nature. “I do forgive you, Merlin.”

She knew she didn't believe her words and perhaps she should have softened her countenance while delivering them. But she'd had enough of being vulnerable. To convince him she meant it she said, “Why don't we grab a bite.” After all the jug and the food could not have only been meant for her to exercise her powers upon. “After a job well done.”

Merlin's face fell a little but then he recovered and gave her a bright smile. “Yes, why not.”

With his powers Merlin fixed a broken chair and invited her to sit. Morgana was still gaping at his ease in the use of magic, when she sat. Merlin shared his wine and his cheese. She had time to notice that he ate like a peasant. He used his hands to break the bread and the knife only to cut the cheese. Unlike the people at her father's mansion, he wasn't dainty. He had little refinement. But when she stopped considering manners and started behaving like him she felt more at ease, with him, the situation and herself.

“We always talk about me,” she said after a long pause. “What about you?”

Merlin stopped munching and looked up from his plate. He swallowed his morsel and drank a measure of the wine. “What about me?”

“How did you become a druid?”

“My mother was one,” Merlin said after a pause he'd used, she wagered, to decide her whether he would tell her or not. “I was raised into it.”

“So she had magic?” Morgana speared a piece of cheese with the point of her knife. The cheese had a coarse taste but that didn't mean she might not grow to like it.

“No.” Merlin shrugged his shoulders. “Not a whit of it.”

Morgana wanted to ask him how he got them then. That way she might clear up why she had them too. Her mother was a high born lady but there was nothing magical about her. The same went for her father, a warlord, a nobleman, a leader of men, but not a warlock. When she was little she had wondered why she was different from her parents, why this strange sensation flared up inside her. Could she get her answers now? Yet Merlin seemed reluctant to talk about the other part of the equation, his father. She'd be tactful and ask him next time. “And how's the quest going?”

As if he was trying to defend himself Merlin's shoulders rounded inwards. He expelled a big sigh and looked at her with soulful eyes. “You know I've infiltrated the Templars.”

Though he had told her before, Morgana didn't have the details. Merlin would never pass as a warrior. He had neither the honed physique nor the martial mien. She chose not to put him down with her words. “And how's that going?”

“Horribly.” Elbows on the table, Merlin put both hands in his hair. “I'm working as a lay servant and the knight I'm serving? He doesn't deserve the deception. He's a good sort.”

“Some of them are.” Templars were like all men, Morgana believed. Some were good and some were not.

“Yes, but this one is rather special.” Merlin rubbed his face with both palms and shook his head.

Morgana tilted hers. “How so?”

“I went with him on an expedition,” Merlin said, his tone suited to a long narration. “I wasn't supposed to, but he needed a squire and he gave me this big pat on the back and told me to prepare my horse.”

“Imperious.” Morgana was aware she could be like that too at times but she didn't like that quality in others.

“I thought so too and told him in so many words I had my job and squires theirs, but he wouldn't listen.” In spite of the content of his statement, Merlin was smiling from ear to ear. “So we embarked on this enterprise.” Merlin looked into the distance as if he was recalling the event. “We rode far into the night and then into the next day. We crossed a desert and let me tell you I don't like sand and the heat and the fact it's cold at night and...” Merlin made a funny face. “Anyway we came upon a caravan of travellers, a motley group.”

Morgana hazarded a guess. “They were the ones the Templars were meant to escort into Antioch.”

Merlin assented. “The Templars took charge of the company and guarded it along the way back. But we were attacked.”

“Who by?” Morgana tensed in preparation of the answer. Her father was a retainer of the King of Jerusalem. If Antioch fell, there would be total war, and her father would get involved. 

“I have no idea,” Merlin said, his expression sombre with memories of the event. “Probably mercenaries serving no lord. Anyway a fight followed. Arthur behaved nobly, downing many attackers. But then he saw a child being preyed upon by a rider. He took a wound in the shoulder because he was distracted by the little one's plight. But that didn't stop him. Bleeding, he rode out to the attacker and faced him one on one, saving the child.”

Morgana wasn't sure she understood how that had happened. “Wasn't he busy fighting off the marauder?”

“Um, yes.” Merlin scratched at his neck, just above the collar of his frayed tunic. “He told me to get the child to safety.”

“So you contributed.” Morgana had known there was something more to the story and here it was!

“Not very well, according to Arthur.” Merlin pinked up, seemed to notice he was having a reaction, and bowed his head.

“But you did take the child to safety?” Morgana meant to probe into this.

“Well, yes, and I had to use my powers when no one was looking to do so,” Merlin said, “but Arthur was the one who fought valiantly, taking down all the aggressors. And later, though he clearly didn't know what to do with children, he was the one who helped her find her parents.”

“While you ignored her?”

“Oh no, well, no.” Merlin looked appalled at the idea. “I wouldn't treat a child like that. No, I told her the stories my mum used to tell me when I was that young.” Merlin grinned to himself. “Even Arthur seemed to like them because though he said he couldn't stand them, he was looking at me rather fixedly. Must have enjoyed them.”

Morgana thought Merlin was selling himself rather short but was happy to learn that the girl was all fine now. Every little girl had a right to that. 

When Morgana asked, Merlin told her his mother's stories. He had a way of recounting them that made her listen and reminded her of her childhood. When she was little she had a nurse that came from a town along the Silk Road, close to Samarcand, and she had a habit of storytelling. For as long as Merlin spoke, Morgana also heard her nurse's tone and half-remembered memories, tales of far distant places, like Tabriz and Bukhara and of deserts and jungles, of waterfalls and lakes, of mountains so high they defied men.

Morgana was so lost in the words and the echoes of other worlds that she scarcely noticed the stub the candle had become and it was only when a pallid light beam filtered through the window that she noticed that the day was about to dawn. 

Quickly she stood. “I have to go before Gwen comes to wake me or my hosts will notice my absence.”

Merlin understood and gave her a nod of the head. “Be here in ten days when the moon waxes.”

Before being released into the streets, Morgana cloaked her face with the hood of her cloak. “Till then.”

As Morgana exited the hut, she heard the words, “Fare thee well, Morgana.”


	13. Destiny

Antioch, December 1146

 

The streets of Antioch were awash in the pale December sun, with it showering the tall buildings of the noble quarter with light, the tall houses of the nobility standing proud along the street. The architecture was typical of the Levant, structured around columns, piers and arches and decorated with arabesque patterns. Courtyards laid out with axial paths could be glimpsed through gates, hinting at gardens that were heavenly in splendour and redolent with the perfumes of nature.

The thoroughfares themselves weren't as neat and tidy. The paving was dirty and overrun with mud and dust, the horse's hooves dirtying themselves with them. But that was par for the course, as true of the land of his birth as it was of this place. You didn't go looking for cleanliness in the streets. You couldn't expect it of communal places. It was the Templars' sense of orderliness, the clear rules, that had taught Lancelot to appreciate spotlessness in a way ordinary citizen didn't.

To avoid colliding with a cart, Lancelot reined in his horse. He was about to spur it back into action when he passed a large mansion built out of pale stonework. The facade was highly decorated with intricately woven geometric patterns and shapes. The entrance door consisted of two wooden door-leaves, reinforced with lead plates kept in place by large steel nails. Either side of it plants grew; climbing jasmine covered the walls, rose bushes sprouted up along the aisles that separated the house from its neighbours and citrus trees decorates its surroundings.

Out of the house a woman slipped. She wore simple yet becoming clothing. Her hair descended in curls which were tied away in a string of a pale lilac colour. She was of small build yet the way she advanced made her the focus of attention. At this distance Lancelot couldn't make out her features, but she unmistakeably reminded him of _her_. It wasn't possible. She was in the West, living her life thousands of miles from him. His vows were between them. And yet an avalanche of bittersweet memories washed over him, flooding his soul with a longing he hadn't known in a long time.

Love was such a powerful feeling. It worked its way into a man's essence and left such profound scars one could never recover. Yet Lancelot would never renounce his past, his bygones. He had learnt to live without it, without her. Recollecting her still gave him a pang, but though he had a new calling, he would ever willingly give up on his fondest reminiscences of her.

Though he understood the woman exiting the house couldn't be her, something about her played on his feelings in such a way she awoke a tornado of conflicting emotions. Without knowing what he was doing he spurred his horse on and followed her.

She was walking at a moderate place, neither strolling nor hurrying. A basket hung from her arm. As she moved, it swung about, showing it was empty. She likely meant to fill it with her shopping. Given that she was out and about without a retinue, he guessed she was a servant, not a woman of status.

Slackening his mount's pace, Lancelot went after her. She proceeded with purpose, though sometimes she looked about in the way a stranger does in a city they don't know. Confirming this impression, she stopped to ask directions of several people.

In a bid not to be noticed, Lancelot kept back, watching the lady as she went about her outing. He was too far to make out her face but he wanted it that way. If he came close enough to distinguish her features, he would be able to tell it was not _her_ , that his love was not here. This way he could keep up the illusion, fool himself. Though he knew to the truth was important, he didn't want to come to terms with it now. He had no wish to.

By and by they came to a market place. It was crowded with all sorts of people and many items were on sale. The woman Lancelot had tailed stopped to buy something from a stall. Cloth was on display. Silks shone in waves. Linens were piled in columns, while cambric was displayed on racks. 

The lady surveyed the stock, running her hand along ripples of fabric, touching squares of cloth, interrogating the stall holder. She pointed out various articles and the seller set them aside for her. She seemed to be choosing a variety of materials and most of them appeared expensive. Since she wasn't so richly dressed, Lancelot therefore deduced she must be buying for her employers. 

To see more of the lady, Lancelot spurred his horse forward. But the crowds of Antioch moved before him, and he lost sight of her. He hoped she hadn't moved on, that she was still somewhere he could locate her. He didn't know why this mattered. The lady was a stranger, one that ignored his existence, and he was overstepping the bounds of common courtesy following her. He should turn away, bury the sensations she had awakened back in the pit he had shoved them into when he became a Templar. 

But it wasn't so easy. The more he saw her move, interact with other people, the more he thought her similar to his lost love. Talking to the merchant, she would incline her head just so, looking exactly like his love had done. And when she got to another stall, her motions resembled hers so closely that for a moment Lancelot saw himself in the courtyard to the back of the smithy, sitting on the rim of an old tumbled wall, with his sweet Guinevere by his side.

The sun shone of them with all the might of summer, bathing her in nearly celestial light. She had a   
little nosegay in her hands and she was smelling the flowers, her lips turned up. Lancelot hadn't been able to take his eyes off her or to find the words that would properly describe his feelings. Many thoughts had whirled through his brain but he had lost the ability to voice them. It was a long time before he could stammer out the words, “Will you marry me?”

She hadn't answered but scooted closer, cupped his face and kissed him on the lips.

Lancelot still retained the sense memory of that touch; it opened up a chasm of wanting inside him, one he had to curb by reminding himself that his love was entirely inaccessible to him, their separation made permanent by time and distance.

That didn't stop him, however, from catching another glimpse of the woman who so resembled her. He watched as she forged her way ahead until something seemed to change her mind and she turned around, heading his way. Lancelot panicked, feeling the need to put some renewed distance between himself an the woman. Sensing his unease, his horse paced in place. Lancelot had a hard time keeping it calm and by the time he had done it she had come much closer, so much so that he could see her face plainly.

There was no mistaking her.

“Guinevere,” he murmured so low his voice mostly caught in his throat.


	14. On the Road to Adalia

8 January 1148, somewhere north of Adalia

The broad plain extended to the east, an uncultivated expanse of hard volcanic rock composed of compacted ash, greyish brush and terrain that stayed hard despite the winter rains that had hit the area. The road continued inland, cutting across a belt of sand dunes marked by hoof-prints that were scarcely erased by the blowing wind. Sheer and mighty hundred-feet cliffs rose abruptly in the distance, shielding the coastline from view. The hills stretched down towards the sands, the path to Adalia concealed in their midst.

By the time they took it, the sun had almost reached its highest point, its shine a pale yellow sheen that bleached earth and rocks. 

On the eastern edge of the plain, the armoured horses proceeded in double file, an advance guard of Templars in their white cloaks heading the column, followed by a train of French soldiers, led by King Louis, wearing his crown on top of his chain mail coif. Behind them came another file of knights of the Temple, bringing the rear, protecting the French army from attacks coming from the North. The Templars' shields gleamed, more carefully polished than the ones in possession of King Louis' forces. Heavy at their sides as they kept pace, their swords lay in their scabbards.

The further southwards they marched, the more compact the terrain became. It would have been a beautiful though harsh landscape but for the ominous signs that revealed themselves to them. Their cries borne on the air, wafting on the wind like a mourning song, buzzards circled overhead about the plain. Vultures hopped around on the ground, pecking at it as they shook out their feathers. 

Their presence was soon explained. Upon the hard packs of earth corpses were strewn, most of them skeletons picked clean by birds of prey, their bones whitened by the weather, their flesh eaten away. Some of them still had their weapons clutched in their hands, their swords and shields lying close to their bodies, their arsenal and cloaks bearing the arms of their houses.

Hand placed before his mouth, Merlin slowed his mount. “Who are they?” he asked Arthur, who was riding by his side, matching his horse's pace to Merlin's. 

“King Konrad of Germany passed this way en route to Antioch,” Arthur told him, blinking against the noon's sun. “His followers were set upon by Turkish horsemen-archers.”

At the sight of the dead bodies, Merlin closed his eyes. War was a curse, a blight upon all lands, what he was working hard to put an end to. Though these soldiers, as an invading force, weren't free of blame, they didn't deserve this death. And though there would be people at home to remember their names, there would be no one to see to these bodies in an honourable way. If he had been alone, Merlin would have seen to it and disposed of the mortal shells according to the rites of their religion, or his own. If unobserved, he might have attempted a funereal pyre, but he would never have been able to give burial to all these corpses. There were just too many. “I suppose I know how that skirmish ended.”

Arthur's jaw worked. “The Turkish forces apparently charged en masse and let fly a shower of arrows that felled many a warrior. When those left in Konrad's host gave pursuit, the Seljuks turned and fled.”

Merlin was used to hearing tales of the fighting style of the Seljuk forces, so this came as no surprise to him. “But where is Konrad now?”

“Licking his wounds.” Arthur observed the horizon line, his body suiting its rhythm to that of the horse he was riding. “But this is why we're escorting King Louis. As Templars, we're supposed to protect the French army.”

“This conflict makes no sense.” Merlin should have guarded his words. He should have sounded entirely apolitical so as to better be accepted by Arthur. If he rendered himself scarce, he could find out more about the location of the Cup of Life while no one suspected him. But he had grown used to sharing his thoughts with Arthur, to talking as freely as possible whilst keeping his secret. So he just aired his thoughts. “Why do they all have to fight?”

His composure fraying at the edges, Arthur looked at him as if he was shaken by Merlin's words. “There's dignity in fighting.”

“And much bloodshed.” Merlin winged an eyebrow. “You've been in battle. You can't deny that.”

Arthur bowed his head, gazing at his gloved hand as it tightened on the reins. “I won't deny that. But serving a cause, that surely elevates the knight.”

Merlin could see why Arthur thought that way. He was a knight born and bred, a nobleman, and as such he was imbued with ideals that made sense of his role. But Merlin could open him up to new ideas. He hadn't found out the meaning of life either, but he thought his religion held within itself nuggets of truth. “It does. But you always have to take that cause apart, ask yourself why you're doing things.”

Arthur's face tightened. “What, are you trying to say, Merlin?” He passed a hand down his mantle with the red cross stitched in. “That I shouldn't fight? That I shouldn't kill to protect people in need of protection?”

Merlin shook his head. He had been serving a Templar long enough to have found out that a lot of the knights were really doing this out of vocation. They had ideals that connected both aspects of their calling, religion and warfare. But though that was true of Arthur, it wasn't of all of them. Maybe Merlin could make Arthur see the value to his own cause? Maybe Arthur needn't be an enemy at all. Maybe he could be a friend? “No, I never said that.”

“Then what are you saying, Merlin?” Something had closed off in Arthur, his eyes had darkened and his facial muscles had the stiffness of cramp. “That I shouldn't--”

Whatever Arthur might have said, his words were cut off by Lancelot, who had spurred his Andalusian so as to join them from the front ranks. “Arthur, King Louis wants a special escort of Templars.” He eyed both Arthur and Merlin with a frown on his brow. “I need you to ride up to him.”

Arthur nodded. “Come on, Merlin.”

“Arthur.” Lancelot expressed his concern by way of his drawn looks. “I don't think the King will welcome your servant.”

“Merlin is acting as my squire.” This wasn't exactly true. Merlin was no squire. But Arthur didn't seem to care. He took control of his mount, and spurred it forwards, calling back, “Come on, Merlin, we have a king to serve.”

Merlin could do nothing other than follow Arthur, so with a few gentle words imbued with power, he convinced his horse to trot ahead. He wouldn't have wanted it any different anyway.

The King sat astride his horse, but he didn't look regal at all. His blond hair hung limply all the way down the sides of his wan face. There were gouges under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks, visible in spite of the untrimmed beard. His wrists were small, his legs bony. His weight must have dropped off him quite quickly too, because his muscles were sagging. 

Merlin had noticed that the King's soldiers were likewise half-starving. Most of them appeared keen to slaughter any animal that moved in their vicinity, and rather envious of the Templars, who had come highly prepared for their escorting duty. It now appeared to Merlin as if even the higher echelons were suffering the effects of hunger.

At sight of his Templar escort, King Louis said, “It's high time. We must watch out. The Seljuks control this area and the sooner we arrive in Adalia the better.”

Having taken in the King's order, Lancelot inclined his head. “We'll guard you, my Lord.”

Though King Louis didn't ask who Merlin was, Merlin made himself as scarce as possible, riding right behind Arthur. He didn't want to inspire the King's fury.

The cavalcade continued on until they came upon a steep and rocky upland, the path rendered difficult to pass by boulders and minor rock formations, which slowed horses and foot soldiers alike. Though not entirely barren, the terrain was dry and hard-surfaced. The Templars, master horsemen down to the last man, had it easier than the King's troops. Or Merlin for that matter.

By and by they came upon a lofty ridge, very narrow and forbidding, and the cavalcade's train slowed down considerably. Wagons lost their parts as they bumped along and men stumbled just as horses did. Because of these impediments, the men uttered curses every now and then, filling the silence with their imprecations as well as their laborious grunts.

As it climbed, the path narrowed even more, becoming nothing more than a narrow trail, on one side the mountain, on the other escarpments. Every now and then rocks fell from above, hitting upheld shields, horses and men. Injuries multiplied, with the wounded joining the supply wagons at the back of the procession.

“We push on.” In spite of the hardships, King Louis showed determination in his attitude and mien. “We're on unsafe ground.”

Though the mood of the company had worsened, the soldiery couldn't refuse their King. Even if Merlin could read wariness on the faces of many of them, nobody protested. The Templar escort set the example, Arthur among the first to prod his horse on.

As for him, Merlin didn't like it, not one bit. The path was harsh and narrow, the army wearied and tired by the long march. The beasts were worse off than the men; they had been fed even less than them and the strain showed on them ten times more. Their sides were emaciated, their muscles decaying with the lack of nutrients.

So it came as no surprise when one of the poor pack-horses lost its footing. With a blood-curdling neigh, it dashed beyond the rim of the ledge, bringing with him its handler and two more men who had been standing on the edge of the lower ridge. As they fell, the men released screams that were as horrifying as those of the horse.

It had all happened so fast, Merlin could have done nothing. Even with his magic, stopping the accident would have been impossible. Even so, he couldn't quite shake off those yells, couldn't stop them from echoing in his ears. Responsibility for this death weighed him down like a mourning shroud.

Having noticed, Arthur gave him a pat on the back that transformed itself into a lingering touch, one meant to buoy, but that Merlin felt all the way to his bones. “That's what happens to armies on the move, Merlin.” He pressed his lips together, a haunted look in his eyes. “You mustn't let that get to you.”

Warmed by Arthur's attempts at coaching him into weathering the life of the soldier, moved by it beyond measure, Merlin almost didn't hear King Louis shout an order. “Halt!” The command was delivered in a voice that quivered with fear, one that didn't hold within it the power of majesty. “I don't think we can proceed as we are.”

One of the French knights took this as an opportunity to speak up. turned his horse round and rode up to the King. “I ask his majesty for permission to ride ahead and protect the main column.”

The King's brow knitted deeply in thought, making him look like an old, weathered man. “I--” He hesitated, knights and foot soldiers looking at him for cues. King Louis swallowed, cleared his throat, his fist tightening around the reins. “De Rancon,” he said, addressing the knight. “You have my leave to do as you think fit.”

Lancelot and Arthur shared concerned looks. Lancelot bowed his head. He likely thought he had no power to countermand the King's wishes.

Arthur held himself rigidly upright on horseback. In a clear attempt to hold his peace, he bit his lip at first, but then he couldn't resist anymore, and spoke. “My liege, your plan has merit, but it does not take into account one important factor. If my Lord De Rancon takes off with part of the army, we will be weakened. If an attack occurs, on this soil...”

The King didn't seem to know what to say, he dithered, looking to his followers, as if he expected suggestions. Of course he didn't get any. He was the King; nobody would try and feed him ideas. No one would dare.

Seeing as no one was intervening, de Rancon held his fist to his heart, then addressed his retainers, “This is our chance to do our part, protect out King! Let us march in his name and add glory and lustre to it!”

The King signed himself and added a little prayer, the Latin words lost to the wind. “Go, de Rancon. God be with you.”

Merlin could tell that Arthur and Lancelot were stumped, as were the other Templars. None of them liked this, but none of them opposed the French monarch either. Whether they were his subjects or not, as Templars, they knew how to take orders, how to behave under military leadership. Merlin had hidden long enough among them to have found out about their martial rigour and dutifulness. 

“You've heard your King.” With no other choice, Arthur shouted. “March on.”

From then onwards Mount Cadmus surged abruptly, chasms opening up left of the track ahead. White and rose-coloured marble striations were embedded in the rock, varied by purple streaks of brilliant hue that somehow merged beautifully with the earthier tones of the sedimentary stone. 

At one with nature, Merlin felt his powers respond to the environment. He might have been content, basked in the marvels that came from the earth, had he not had a bad feeling about the whole enterprise. Left to himself, he'd have turned around, and brought Arthur somewhere safer. But he couldn't speak about his misgivings anymore than he could out his powers. He hoped he was mistaken, but, just in case, he kept his magic close, ready to snap outwards.

Despite orders from the King to camp at the summit, a group of titled knights pushed on. Arthur tried to shepherd them back together with Lancelot, but Merlin could tell Louis' most trusted men were resentful of the members of the order. So, mounts picking their way up the side of the mountain, they passed the summit, with some of the noblest warriors in the French cavalry descending quickly, with the aim of building a camp at its foot, while leaving the bulk of Louis' force behind.

Arthur murmured to Lancelot, “This is on us now.” There were precious few seasoned knights among the group of those left with Louis. “Stay close to the King.”

The Templars formed a band around him, circling him in their ring of protection, their swords sheathed but at the ready. Merlin followed just a pace behind, his mood made worse by the tension he could sense coming from Arthur in waves. 

The baggage train, containing food, tents and other needed items, fell behind, pilgrims and stragglers lost to sight. 

Merlin was herding his horse forward, when he heard the first panicked screams. They were borne on the air like the wails of banshees. They deafened Merlin's ears and drove stalactites in his heart. 

The spearhead of Templars surrounding the King wrestled their spooked mounts into obedience, turning around when the noise didn't cease. But the King himself gave no order. He clutched at his reins, his face pale with the knowledge something had gone entirely wrong.

With de Rancon gone ahead and thus unable to supply help, Arthur was the first to react. “To me!” he shouted. “To me!”

Lancelot and the other Templars rallied to him and then so did the King's remaining knights. Encouraged by the support he was receiving, the King himself took on a more commanding role.

As Merlin made to join the group, Arthur extended his arm, so that his hand brushed Merlin's chest. “Not you.”

“But you're going.” Merlin couldn't keep himself from pointing this out.

“You're no warrior, Merlin.” A deep fold line appeared on Arthur's face. “I can't let you join the fray”

“I'm your squire.” Merlin tried to ooze as much determination as he could as he echoed Arthur's words from earlier in the day. He put it in his tone and in his gaze, hoping Arthur would understand that Merlin wouldn't let him go alone. “I'm coming with.”

“You're no real squire.” Arthur's mulish expression could almost have matched Merlin's. “You can't fight, Merlin. You're not coming.”

Arthur was right. Merlin was not cut down for the art of war. He could barely defend himself, but he had a trick up his sleeve and he meant to use it. And even if he hadn't had it, he still would have followed. “Whether you like it or not, I am.”

Merlin must have sounded decisive enough, for Arthur bent backwards to extract a sword from his saddle bag. It wasn't a Templar sword. Most had ivory or gold hilts with a red cross emblazoned on them. As a servant, Merlin had polished enough to know. No, this one was plain and double edged, very heavy looking. It must have been Arthur's own from before he ever reached the Holy Land. At sight of it, Merlin's heart cracked in places. He looked up, locking eyes with Arthur, and grasped the hilt of the blade Arthur was offering. “Thank you.”

Arthur didn't say anything in reply. He inclined his head once, then turned his prancing horse round, and started going down the same side of the mountain they had all so laboriously climbed. 

Not wanting to lose sight of Arthur, Merlin spurred his horse into following.

Before long the Templar contingent was on the move as well, supplying reinforcements. Even the King and his closest retinue rode for it. 

When Merlin, saddled with a much slower mount, got there, the clash had already began.

A solid mass of Seljuks had swarmed downwards from above, assaulting the baggage wagons. Neighing horses reared and whinnied, breaking free of their harness. Some galloped up-hill against the tide of French reinforcements; others ran blindly to their deaths, dashing over the edge of the mountain path.

Where the fray was thickest, arrows rained down on unshielded heads, wounding many a foot soldier and camp follower too. Those who had a shield put it up. But more and more arrows poured down like the rushing wind; they came from the overhead ledges, where a great part of the Seljuk warriors hid. The rain of shafts blocked the sunshine; obscured all light. When they landed on the cracked soil, they thumped hard. No noise followed when they embedded themselves in soft flesh.

As the minders of the baggage train started dropping like flies, the second wave of Seljuks descended on them.

They ran down full tilt, swords and shields gleaming. They pelted down the side of Mount Cadmus, their spears aimed at the chests of their rivals. Their war cries resounded everywhere, driving fear in the hearts of those the attack was aimed upon.

Arthur, Lancelot, and the rest of the Templars moved as a wave and met the attackers. Body impacted on body as swords were raised and shields put up. The two groups hacked and slashed at each other, weapons thundering in the clash. Both parties had everything to gain from this. If the crusaders won, they would be able to reach Adalia and meet the remnants of Konrad's army, Together they could hatch a battle plan for the rest of the crusade. If the Seljuks won, they would instil fear in all Christian militias, stumping the crusade, and guaranteeing their sovereignty of their own territory, if not more of it. 

As the Templars fought on horseback, the Seljuks arrowed them down. Then the rest of the Seljuk fighters abandoned their high positions and dashed around on foot, cutting saddle strings, unhorsing their opponents. While the French knights succumbed without the advantage provided by their mounts, the Templars fought well under all conditions.

They used sword and spear, combated on in spite of the crush of men, hurling themselves at their foes with all the raw energy of consummate fighters. They stabbed and clashed weapons, treading the fallen underfoot, aligning into formation the first chance they got.

Their Seljuk enemies shrieked and fell, but didn't lose courage. They, too, were initiates to the art of war, quicker on their feet than even the Knights of the Temple themselves. They were like the wind; one moment close and then gone. They had a knack for confusing the crusaders, using fighting styles they were not accustomed to.

With horror Merlin saw a spear break through a helmet, piercing it at eyehole level. The benighted knight felt for the spear shaft, trying with all his might to shake it free, before succumbing to the shock of his wound.

King Louis himself was in trouble. He was scrambling up a rock covered in tree roots, battering his attackers with his sword.

Rendered frantic by the amount of bloodshed going on, Merlin searched for Arthur in the mêlée. At first it was hard to do so. Bodies crashed one against the other, only recognisable by their cloaks and weapons.

But then Merlin clocked Arthur. He was fighting without his helmet, blood smattering his face. As he fought off enemies left and right, his sword came arcing down. As he did, he manoeuvred his horse into compliance, subduing it when it most wanted to rear. Curved blades met his Templar sword, clanging in the chaos. 

Merlin wanted to make for him, but between them were masses of battling individuals.

In spite of Merlin's will to stop it, the fighting went on, with the Seljuks thrusting and stabbing. The Templars pushed them back, keeping them away from King Louis, trying to force them down the mountain. But the Seljuks were excellent fighters. Their numbers didn't reduce, more of them filling the gaps of the fallen, and the affray stayed frightful.

Dust rose in the air. Both parties trod over the bodies of the dead and injured, and they fought relentlessly in a constant heaving of sword, axe and spear. Merlin could hear their determination in their grunts and cries, in the battle screams and moans. 

No side seemed to want to surrender, or retreat. It wasn't even this bit of mountain they were fighting over. This was a larger tactical bid. Even Merlin understood it and he had mostly been trying to track the Cup of Life and serving Arthur rather than take a look at politics.

The moment Merlin tracked Arthur again was the moment his heart climbed all the way to his chest. His enemy seemed to be an accomplished fighter. He held both a sword and a poniard and the blades danced in his hands.

Though fast himself, Arthur was having a hard time parrying thrusts and slices. With each heave of his weapon, Arthur grunted and sweated. When he failed to intercept a blow, the point of the poniard snagged in his chain mail. In spite of this, Arthur's face showed no sign of pain, but Arthur's attitude was so martial, he wouldn't have given off any sign had he actually been wounded. Merlin needed to know whether Arthur had been. 

This couldn't go on. Surely, Arthur wasn't fated to die on the side of a mountain in Asia Minor. Merlin needed to do something. He must intervene. He tried to convince his nag, no warhorse, to pace forward so that he could join the fray, but his mount would only budge a few paces before backing sideways. It was too afraid of the noise and could smell the blood being split. There was no convincing it. Merlin had come to the point of trying to use his magic on it, when a turbaned warrior bared his sword at him.

Instinctively, Merlin pulled on the reins, willing his horse to back away from this new danger. Because he didn't want to have to fight, or worse, kill, he had to put some distance between himself and this warrior. He wasn't part of this expedition, not really. He wanted nothing to do with this war. He understood why the Seljuks were fighting, why they were taking up arms against the Westerners. He knew what protecting one's home meant, because he was trying to protect the world. But somehow he didn't think he could reason it out with an angry warrior doing his duty. 

His horse refusing to back off when it was most wanted, Merlin tried some magic. Everyone focused on surviving, a frenzy of fighting was going on around him. Merlin thought there was a good chance he could get away with it. Without saying the words out loud, he concentrated on the sword descending towards him. He envisioned the burning of coals and in seconds he saw the blade turn orange, as if it had been worked in a forge. 

Through gritted teeth, The Seljuk warrior held on to his sword, but before the blade could pierce Merlin, he dropped it. A look of bafflement appeared on the warrior's face, but it didn't last long. The warrior recouped quickly enough, and pulled another weapon from his belt. Four jagged claws stuck out of a piece of metal around which two holes for fingers were constructed. 

Merlin might be no man at arms, but he knew what that was. Rashid had a collection of those implements and Arthur had talked about them. It was a tiger's claw, designed to wreak havoc on its victims with its sharp points, pointed like the talons of the most ferocious beast. Merlin, for one, wasn't looking forward to being pierced by them.

So he jerked on the reins, hoping his nag would get his drift and turn around. But it didn't. Spooked by the attack, it unhorsed him. Breath driven out of him, Merlin landed with a thump. 

The Seljuk warrior dismounted too.

Merlin ought to have been thankful. The warrior was being honourable by putting them on an even footing. But he wasn't all that happy about this development all the same. On horseback he could have put some distance between them. As it was, he was going to have to give a stab at hand to hand combat. And he knew how much of a fighter he wasn't. Still, he had to curb his fear, which was drumming at his temples, and try and survive this ordeal. He had the Cup of Life to find. He had Arthur to serve.

The warrior didn't care about either of those reasons. He slashed out with the tiger's claw, the air hissing with its chant.

Dancing away from the weapon, Merlin thought fast of all the spells he had ever learnt. Somehow, though, nothing came to mind. _Calm down. Calm down, you can't incant if if you don't._ Merlin tried to breathe it out, but he had no time to find his centre, for the warrior came at him with renewed intent.

As the Seljuk warrior came at him again and again, Merlin jumped away. He was planning to do more leaping away for the foreseeable future, when his foot skimmed nothingness. Merlin turned his head and saw he'd come to edge of the mountain road. Another step and he would fall over. He blinked right back at the Seljuk warrior.

Without smirking or seeming to relish his advantage, the Seljuk warrior advanced on Merlin.

Silently thanking Arthur for lending him the weapon, Merlin took the sword Arthur had leant him out of its scabbard. Though he was no great swordsman, he supposed he would have some sort of advantage here. The tiger's claw was but a supplemental weapon, one that wasn't designed to fend off a live blade.

So Merlin tried an attack. There was a chance his adversary would think Merlin a tough nut to crack and move on, making sure Merlin neither lost his life nor took one. But the Seljuk warrior dodged the sword and lashed out with his claws. 

With the scratching noise of metal on metal, Merlin managed to parry. But the Seljuk warrior freed himself from the impasse and slashed at him again, this time forcing him to jump backwards. 

When Merlin brought his sword down, the Seljuk warrior caught the blade in the space between the hooks of his weapon. Metal screeched as the blade slid between the metal talons. With a twist, the Seljuk warrior had once again countered Merlin's attempts at warding him off. Moving fast, the Seljuk went for Merlin again and again. 

Merlin was doing his best at keeping the Seljuk at a distance, when he heard Arthur shout his name. Detecting the fear in it, Merlin's gaze swivelled towards him. Arthur was on foot now, trying to fight his way over to him, blocked by a mass of bodies, fighters fighting in single combat, exchanges blows, moving from one enemy to the other, belting out their war screams, their taunts.

It was clear that in this chaos Arthur could never make it to him. 

His inattention cost Merlin dear. Before he could actually look at his adversary pain bloomed on his shoulder. It stunned him, before robbing his breath. He had no time to nurse the wound though, because the Seljuk warrior had smelt blood and was on the attack again. 

Although weakened, Merlin tried to defend himself. Unable to his his magic with Arthur watching him from afar, Merlin entrusted his life to luck. With all his might, he lunged with his sword, but the Seljuk warrior had predicted his move. With a chopping motion, he hit Merlin's forearm. 

Pain exploded bright for Merlin and he reflexively opened his hand, thus dropping his sword. 

Now the Seljuk warrior definitively had he upper-hand, slashing out at Merlin, the call of the claw like a dirge in the air. Arm whirling about, he caught Merlin in the sternum, slicing Merlin's skin open right up to his armpit.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, as he fought his way over to him.

Before Merlin could resort to his magic to defend himself in one desperate bid for life, the Seljuk hit again.

Tottering on his feet, Merlin saw black, and hit the ground.


	15. Fahad

Antioch, January 1148

The dining hall faced the sahn, which was surrounded by a colonnaded riwaq, supported by alternating piers built out of intricately carved pale wood. From one corner to the other the high table extended along the colonnade, its line reflecting the intricate geometry of the place. 

As they dined, the scent of the flowers planted at the centre of the courtyard wafted over to them, the moon shining bright above them.

Venerable musicians wearing white beards and ornate turbans plucked the strings of ancient kabuli rebabs, their plaintive, dramatic sounds waxing and dying according to the rhythm of the notes played. There was a story being told here, one made on air and music, one that pierced the heart and conquered the soul.

While the notes sounded, the guests spoke in in Arabic and Persian, Latin and French, their voices mingling as they discussed irrigation and mathematics, the cycles of the moon and poetry. They quoted Aristotle and Avicenna, Ibrahim ibn al-Mahd and Abbo of Fleaury. All subjects under the sun seemed to be scrutinised and canvassed.

Morgana's hosts, the de Nogents, entertained each of their guests turn, offering them food, and drinks of Boza. 

Having sipped at her own cup, Morgana rose, drawing all eyes on her. “If you'll forgive me, my Lord,” she said, addressing her host. “I'm really tired and intend to attend Matins Mass tomorrow.”

De Nogent inclined his head, searching his wife's gaze for approval. Aceline de Nogent was after all the one who had all say in matters regarding the ladies of the house. She was the one who put them up, organised their pastimes and chaperoned the unmarried women such as Morgana. “You may go, I'll make sure a servant wakes you in time.”

“I have Gwen with me.” Morgana nodded her head at her. Here in Antioch, away from the Gorlois household, Gwen had grown stranger and more silent. She acted as if something was weighing on her. But Aceline wasn't to know that and would trust her to see to her mistress just as she ignored Morgana's plans. “She'll ensure I'm up in time.”

The stairs overlooked the courtyard and led to a second floor walkway that jutted over the southern side of the sahn. Immediately facing the top of the stairs was an archway leading off to the bedrooms, whose windows were covered by fretted screens worked in geometric patterns allowing an outside view. 

Lighting their footsteps, torches flickered along the walls, the veils of Morgana's gauze-like train billowing softly in the nightly breeze. The music from the courtyard travelled on the air, carrying some of its sweetness with it, but it sounded muffled and far off. 

When they came to the door to Morgana's bedroom, they both halted. Morgana turned around and leant against the door jamb. “I'll change on my own tonight, Gwen. There's no need for you to linger.”

A ringlet escaping her tress, Gwen cocked her head to the side. “Don't you want me to prepare a bath for you?”

Morgana arranged her face into a calm expression. “There's a touch of chill to the air tonight so I would not and I'd rather you had more time to sleep anyway.”

“Because we're going to Matins tomorrow?” Gwen's brow didn't smooth out, though she seemed to be trying on a smile. 

“Yes.” That was as good an excuse as any and Morgana didn't want to change it. If it passed muster with her host, it would suit Gwen as well. “We're going to be up bright and early tomorrow.”

Looking less uncertain, Gwen curtsied and started on her way to her nearby chamber. She hadn't passed the halfway mark, when she turned around, standing in the shadows. Her voice floated across as she said, “Is that because we are losing to the Seljuks?”

Morgana got wind of all the news that was to be got. She knew that the Germans had suffered a terrible attack in northern Syria; the echo of which shook up all the Frankish magnates in the East. Some even suspected the Byzantine emperor of actively sabotaging the Occidentals by forming alliances with the Sultan of Rum. Fear had grown in Antioch too, for much of the Eastern part of the principality had been lost to Nur ad-Din. Count Raymond was preparing himself for battle and no one knew what the outcome would be. 

In circumstances such as these it was only to be expected that a high born lady would turn to the church to pray for a positive resolution to the predicament. Everyone would believe it of her, even Gwen. Morgana let her believe it.

“I didn't make you out as so pious,” Gwen said in a flat tone that was neither probe nor query. “In all these years, I've never seen you turn to the church.”

Perhaps Morgana had been mistaken and Gwen knew her better than Morgana herself had guessed. Gwen was certainly perceptive enough. She had also the sensitivity necessary to detect a lie. But Morgana had to make sure Gwen believed her words. Everything rested on that. “You are right, Gwen.” She made her voice sweet. It seeped understanding. “And in normal circumstances I wouldn't go.” Since Gwen was so insightful, Morgana couldn't make the same mistake again. She couldn't once more act as if her personality had wholly changed. Her conduct must mirror her character as Gwen knew it. She must be as stubborn and nonchalant as she usually was. Otherwise Gwen would see through her ruse. “But we're in a time of crisis, Gwen. I thought I could spare the effort.”

Gwen nodded. Since Morgana couldn't read her expression with her standing in the dark, she couldn't tell whether she had convinced Gwen at all. 

Silence lapsed between them. 

Morgana wondered what was keeping Gwen up, what made her question Morgana right now. Could she have an inkling? Could Morgana's plans be set awry? Surely not. Morgana had made sure she'd make no mistakes. She had watched her back, curated a careful front. Her letters to her family in Jerusalem had betrayed none of her thoughts. Her model behaviour as a guest of the de Nogents had caused lady de Nogent to say she would never have suspected Morgana of the wildness she was known for. Gossip must have been particularly unkind to her. Surely, the elite in Jerusalem had been mistaken. How could Gwen have seen through that front? She couldn't. That was sure. “You must see how important that is.”

Gwen said, “If we lose Antioch, and Jerusalem follows, what is to be of your family?”

“We lose everything.” Morgana's father was a crusader lord. His father before him had fought for Jerusalem. What they had was what they'd gained at the end of a sword. Though their titles went back centuries, to Charlemagne himself, they hadn't had much in France. Morgana could be truthful as to that. “We go back to the draughty castle you know well enough.”

“The Vexin was so beautiful,” Gwen said with longing in her voice. “I loved it there.”

Morgana had been born in the Holy Land and had no such memories to endear it to her. Her father had told her tales of a ruined castle rising in a land beholden to the King of France. As a cadet son, Gorlois hadn't been content with that and had stayed in Jerusalem to consolidate his position. “I know, Gwen.”

“Sometimes...” Gwen's sigh carried across. “...Sometimes I wish I was back there.”

Morgana couldn't see why. Gwen's life couldn't have been better in France. She was surely being paid more now that her family could afford to lavish wealth on their servants than she had been as a maid in France. But aside from that, there had always been something rather mysterious about Gwen's past. She had certainly never opened up about it. Maybe she did have a reason and Morgana would never know. “You know you're free to go.” Morgana would dearly miss Gwen, but she had diverging plans herself and anyway she'd never stand in the way of Gwen's wishes.

Though Morgana couldn't see Gwen, she could make out her actions reflected in her shadow. Shadow Gwen, in fact, bowed her head and raised her hand to her temple. “Even if I could afford passage, what would be left there for me, after all this time?”

There was nothing Morgana could say. When Gwen had chosen to move into her service she had severed contacts with all that she had known. Her life in the Vexin had been virtually over. Tidings from the area would never make it to the Holy Land anyway and she couldn't hope to maintain any relationship from half the world away. They had all known that. Morgana's conscience pricked her hard. “My family will always provide for you.”

Gwen didn't say anything to that and the silence between them stretched and lengthened. Morgana was thinking ahead, making provisions for the next few hours. As to Gwen, who knew what she was thinking. Hopefully she was tired and would sleep soundly all night long. 

“Good night, my lady,” Gwen eventually said, moving on her way to her room. 

“Good night, Gwen.” Morgana bit her lip and watched Gwen go, sadness welling up in her even as she braced herself for what was to come.

Once she'd shut the door to the rest of the world, Morgana surveyed her room. Finally alone, she opened the chest closest to the wall and took out the saddlebags she had secreted in it. She quickly undid the fastenings to check that everything was inside. When she was sure she had everything, she hooked them up again. Quickly, she collected a few fresh tunics she had taken from the servants' laundry line and stashed them hurriedly inside. Using the contents of the jug she had by her bed, she filled a water skin she laced up tightly. She wouldn't need anything more. She would have how to learn to do without the surplus she was used to. As she'd never put much faith in the trappings of her life, she was confident she could do it.

So as to better pretend she was asleep, she snuffed out all the candles. Only when her chamber was plunged in darkness, did she sit down, setting out to wait. 

As she bided her time, she heard noises coming from downstairs. There was no carousing, for the de Nogents didn't house knights as Morgana's own father did. But sound of their guests' talk made it up to her as did the singing that wafted over. She recognised the melodies produced by ouds; they were unmistakeable, rich and heartbreaking, a slice of this land made sound.

For a moment she let herself be transported by the ouds' notes; she loved the instruments like nothing else. They had nothing in common with the rebecs and dulcimers Frankish musicians played. And she appreciated them more than she did those western musical implements. Perhaps this was because ouds made sounds she had grown accustomed to as a child. Perhaps this was because, though Frankish, she had been born in the Holy Land and its sounds and tastes were the ones that had the familiarity of home to her. 

Perhaps this reaction to her surroundings was natural. Or maybe this love for a land that wasn't truly hers was wrong. She was doing what she was about to do because she needed to find out. That way she would sort herself out, map out a future for herself that wasn't that of a Frankish chatelaine transplanted to a land that ought to be foreign to her but wasn't. 

She was still lost in thought regarding the nature of her undertaking, when she realised all noise had died down around her. No music was being played and all talk had dwindled to nothing. She pricked her ears for servant's chatter or for the stray laughter of those of the guests who had stayed up, but the palace stayed silent.

It was time. Padding over as if she were a thief in the night, she made it to the door. Before opening it, she cast a look over her shoulder. She had stayed here for more than a year and this place had grown familiar to her, known. There was the window she had looked out on the courtyard through. There was the soft bed with its veils shielding her from the world. She would miss them. She would think of them often. Doing this wasn't easy. She thought it rather daunting. She was betraying everyone.

Her family had been hoping she would form a matrimonial alliance that would honour their name; little did they know that she sneaked out at night to practice magic instead of pursuing suitable men. They would be disappointed. But this needed to be seen to. And she was one of the few people who could do it. Her chest filled with pride at the notion and her heart swelled. This gave her the strength needed to go through with her plans. 

Looking out for threats, she opened the door a crack. She could see no one in the darkened corridor, nor could she hear the sound of footsteps. The house was asleep. She stepped outside without pushing the door shut. The click that would follow would be too loud and could nudge someone awake.

Following the wall, she walked along the mushrabiya and made for the stairwell. It was empty and her footfalls sounded like the thunder of drums in the still air of the night. Afraid she was making too much noise, she stopped. Yet again no one stirred. But she waited it out, needing to be sure she ran no danger. When the silence had protracted itself long enough, she continued, bypassing the eerie courtyard, and directing her steps towards the stables. 

To secure the horses, which were among the most valuable possessions of any noble lord, the doors to the stables were huge, fastened by way of a heavy wooden bar. 

Gingerly, she lifted it, aware of the noise she was making. Softly, she laid the bar down and entered the stables. Luckily for her the stable boys didn't sleep here, but rather in a small dormitory the lord had had built while he occupied this mansion. So the place was void of any form of life but animals.

Dancing with gusto, torches burned in their holders, which had been kept away from the straw. Bales of it lay in wheel barrows and in pails ready to be used as food for the equines, most of whom were soundly sleeping in the safety of the closed environment.

Having almost made it, Morgana zeroed in on the stall she wanted. De Nogent had bought the horse she had selected from the Sultan of Shayzar, who had been an enemy of the Franks but a few years earlier, and who had extensive stables of the finest pure-breds. Morgana had eyed Fahad from the very first day of her entry in de Nogent's household. He had been the most beautiful and the fiercest horse she'd ever seen. He was as dark as night and as temperamental as the panther he had been named after.

Morgana had often stolen into the stables with the precise intent of getting to know Fahad better, of making him her friend. It had taken her a long time, getting closer and closer, feeding him apples and sugar, but she was now in his good graces. She was, one might say, his favourite.

At her coming, Fahad had pricked his ears. He was calming down, when he neighed nervously again. He only gave off signs of nervousness when someone he didn't know was around.

Alerted, Morgana whipped round. “Gwen,” she said, when her glance encompassed her figure. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question.” Gwen's voice was calm yet hard. 

“I will not answer.” Morgana held her head high. She wasn't about to reveal her secrets. They were too close and personal for her. 

“I don't need you to.” Gwen gave her saddlebags a pointed look.

“Will you denounce me?” Morgana stuck her jaw out. She made her voice steel.

“Morgana!” Pain seeped into Gwen's voice. It was like the shards of their friendship fragmenting.

“I'm not as meek as I pretend to be.” Morgana had become good at playing the docile noblewoman; she knew what people expected of her and played into it. But over the past year she had been discovering her powers, coming into her own. She would fight for what she believed in. “But I don't want to harm you.”

“I wouldn't either, Morgana.” Gwen cupped her mouth with interlocked fingers.

“Then let me go,” Morgana said, finding she could still be kind to Gwen. She had never hardened herself enough to let spite come between them, not unless Gwen betrayed her now. “I need to go.”

“And I need to understand.” Gwen's entreaty nearly broke Morgana's heart. “Why are you doing this? Why are you giving up on your friends and family?”

“There's something I must do.” While Morgana had made no promises to anyone and didn't belong to any sect, she owed allegiance to Merlin. He was the only one who had showed her the way to her powers. As such, she couldn't make light of his secret and reveal his plans. They were important. They were a way for Morgana to redeem herself, for her magic to mean something. “And I can't tell you what it is. Knowing this, will you let me go?”

Gwen's face shuttered, her expression becoming unreadable. “No.”

Morgana didn't want to do this. She didn't want to hurt Gwen. Ever since Gwen had come over from their estate in the West, she'd been a blessing to Morgana. She had stood by her, listened to those confidences Morgana felt she could make without endangering herself, and been loyal to a fault. And now they had come to this pass. “I must do this.” She didn't say that it was important. Gwen could probably guess it. “There's no alternative.”

“Then I must come with you.” Gwen thrust her jaw out.

Morgana's magic went back to simmering. Her head filled with hope and possibilities. And yet, this vision couldn't truly become a reality. It was nothing more than a nice dream. “It's going to be hard and dangerous.” They would have to travel roads pilgrims had escorts for, cross disputed territories, and they ran the risk of encountering danger at every turn. Morgana confided in her magic, but Gwen had no such thing to rely on. “Very much so.”

“It doesn't matter, does it?” Gwen inclined her head. There was no softness about her, only determination. “I'm pledging myself.”

Morgana didn't make the mistake of failing to take Gwen at face value. Gwen could be tough. She had left her world behind and sailed all the way to the Holy Land with only an overseer from the house of Gorlois to help her during her travels. She could perhaps weather what they were committing to. But Morgana would need to spell it out one final time. “I can't promise there won't be hardships, that we won't be risking our lives.”

“You're not changing my mind.” This time Gwen's lips twitched into a smile.

Morgana's chest flooded with joy and optimism. A brand new strength emerged in her. She felt like she could find the solution to any problem, as if she could move mountains. She had everything she'd ever truly needed within reach, and so positioned she could do anything. 

“I'll saddle Fahad,” she said, ready to defy the night with Gwen's help. “And then we're off.”


	16. The Camp in the Taurus Mountains

Merlin's vision came back distorted. The flames that danced on top of the flambeaux stretched and glowed a fiery red. They got elongated and thinned into a nub into whose heart he thought he could see. In it shapes got made and unmade, in crimson vortexes that seemed to form whorls and eddies. The walls of the tent seemed to cave in and bust outwards, like sails in the wind. 

Since this made no sense, Merlin focused better. The more he did, the more the world started looking normal again, giving him hints as to where he was.

Monks in their woollen habits bustled in and out of the the tent, holding rolls of bandages and redolent pots. Turning his head, Merlin saw the the bed rolls and stretchers placed either side of him and aligned along the opposite side of the tent. The men in them moaned or grunted, slept or called out for help.

As he tried to sit up, Merlin's vision swam and blurred until all he could make out were splashes of colour and movement, and he couldn't make a distinction between people and objects. His chest hurt in slow ebbing throbs and, when he palmed the spot that pained him the most, he touched linen, which meant that someone must have seen to him while he was out for the count. Some of it felt wet to the touch and this meant he was bleeding. That, at least accounted for the pain.

But what had caused it? How come he was in this tent surrounded by wounded men? Merlin frowned and concentrated hard so that the fog in his brain would dispel. At first he couldn't part that mental haze, but little by little coherent memories made it to the surface of his mind. 

They'd been attacked. Merlin hadn't been able to fend off his assailant. And Arthur... Arthur had been there too, and he had been fighting. Merlin recollected his bloody visage and his fraught face, but he couldn't for he life of him remember whether Arthur had fallen or not. Either he hadn't paid too close attention or he had lost consciousness before finding out. 

That failing could be made up for now. Had to. With a grunt, Merlin pushed off the bed. He tottered forwards, aiming for the gap in the tent that marked the exit. He had only one plan in mind and that was finding Arthur. Though the wound was tended to, it throbbed and pulsed. His skin pulled and caught and he scratched it, causing a new wave of pain that made him wobble in place. 

He had almost mastered himself once again when he ran into a woman who had just entered the tend. She had auburn hair which fell in waves under a veil of such fine quality Merlin had never seen its like before. Unlike it, her dress was quite simple; over it she wore a shirt of mail cinched at the waist by a slim belt as though it were a robe. Though her look was overall simple Merlin wasn't fooled by it. 

If the train of ladies moving in her wake hadn't suggested that she was someone important, her behaviour did. She looked Merlin up and down, her chin up. “Whoever this is,” she said, “clearly needs to be in bed.” She clapped her hands, and a fair-haired man with a beard that hadn't been culled in at least a month came up to her. “You.” Her eyebrow shot up with a twitch. “I gather you're the physician. Take this man under your wing and make sure he doesn't bleed all over.”

“Your Majesty.” The man inclined his head deeply. 

If Merlin had been better, he'd have been left aghast. As it was he was aware enough to put two and two together. Aside from King Louis, only one person bearing the title of Majesty in the camp was his wife, Queen Eleanor. 

She had been with the vanguard and had thus been spared the attack. Given her composure, the fray seemed not to have shaken her at all. With her calm and poise she seemed like a vision and appeared quite unreal. 

Merlin was still trying to get a grip on what was going on around him, when the physician tried to lead him back to the pallet he'd lain on. The moment he understood, Merlin fought off the physician. As he did so, his head swam and he lost his balance. He was bracing for the impact of a fall, when he found himself grabbed and upheld. It was Queen Eleanor who was keeping him upright. 

“You really need to lie down.” The Queen steadied him until Merlin could stand on his own to feet. “I don't abide dissent.”

“I need to find Arthur,” Merlin said, before realising that the Queen couldn't possibly know who Arthur was. “My master.”

“Your master, is he?” the Queen's mouth twitched. 

Merlin nodded. He wasn't sure he was up for a lengthy explanation, but he needed to fill the gaps in his memories. And who was better equipped than Louis' consort to do help him deal with it? If Arthur were among the fallen, she could pin down a way to find out. She could get someone in her retinue to go and enquire. “A Templar. He was one of the first to ride in to save the baggage wagons.” Merlin remembered the battle, saw the clash of steel on steel in his mind's eye, and he tasted sand and fear as if he was back on Mount Cadmus. Panic whisked through him again because he didn't know whether Arthur had survived or not. “He was fighting with all his might.”

“And you don't remember what happened to him?” The Queen was quick to draw her own conclusions. 

Hoping for some manner of help, Merlin was about to confirm it for her, when Arthur swept in. He was still dirty from the fight, streaks of dirt mingling with smears of crusted blood on his face. His hand was bandaged and looked at least cleaner than his face did. There was a slash along his tunic, but the shirt of mail underneath was whole. “Merlin!” he shouted. When he noticed Queen Eleanor, his voice went down a couple of octaves. “Merlin! I was told you had been brought here, but his Majesty required a report and then one of physicians insisted on bandaging my hand.” As he looked at it, he made a face. “I thought you had died from your wounds.”

“I'm tougher than I look.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he sighed nonetheless and when he looked at Merlin there was an unironic softness in his gaze. “Yes, well, don't tempt fate. I told you not to join the fray.”

Merlin would have answered but for the Queen's withering look. 

“You must be the master this man was looking for,” she said, her voice even with the hauteur of royalty. “I recommend someone take care of him.” She gave Merlin a little push so that he could stand on his own two feet. “If necessary consult my own physician.” 

With that she moved on, her ladies trailing after her, stopping by the beds of the soldiers felled by the attack. Though she never lingered and her questions were curt and to the point, she wrested smiles out of grim men and soothed the most ill. By the time she was gone, many logistic problems had been solved and the morale of the wounded had risen higher.

As for Merlin he once again took to bed. This time he did it with no qualms. Arthur was more or less fine and tonight the rest of the army was licking its wounds anyway. So Merlin pulled up the short blanket he had been provided with and gave a rest to all thought process.

When he woke again, no sunlight blinked in from outside. The only light in the tent came from two torches and one stub of a candle placed on top of a crate. It was enough to illuminate Arthur, who had fallen asleep on a thin bedroll at the foot of Merlin's camp bed. His head lay where Merlin's feet were, propped by both his hands. His knees were drawn upwards and he looked for all the world like an innocent sleeping child.

Something shifted inside Merlin and the shift caused a well of feeling he didn't quite understand. What he knew was that Arthur could have easily slept in the tent all the other Templars were assigned. There he would have had a camp bed of his own and the company of his equals. But he had chosen to be by Merlin's side and that was invaluable.

Merlin would have watched him sleep for hours and be strangely content with his contemplation, when he realised that nature called. He needed to pee badly enough; moreover his muscles were all in a knot from the pain of the wound and lying still for hours. A little ramble outside was needed.

Resisting the pain of the wound, he sat up, turned his body and placed his feet on the floor. In the process he must have grunted or otherwise made some noise, for Arthur roused, blinking bloodshot eyes. 

“Are you all right?” As he took in Merlin, Arthur blanched. His eyes went small as he scrutinised him for signs of what was wrong. “Do you need me to call the Queen's physician?”

“I'm fine.” Merlin chose not to beat around the bush with jokes. Arthur needed him to be straightforward now because his worry was genuine. He was so honourable he felt he was responsible for Merlin because he was his servant. “I just need to, you know.” Merlin cocked his head in a way he thought meaningful.

“I know?” Arthur arched his eyebrow.

“Pass water...” Colour rose to Merlin's cheeks. 

Sleep got chased away from Arthur's eyes and they sparked with merriment. “That's how you call it?”

“Yes.” Merlin tried to puff his chest up, but his wound didn't allow it, so he settled for making a face. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

Arthur chuckled. 

One of the men gathered in the hospital tent, complained about their loudness and Arthur sobered. though there was still a glint of humour in his eyes. Needing to see to his body's needs, Merlin shook his head and pushed off the bed. His legs were apparently up to the task of holding his weight and he was far less wobbly than he had been before. Arthur bid him watch out once he was in the open before lying back down on his bed-roll.

The night was starry and clear. Merlin had a sight of the camp and of the high ground to Mount Cadmus in the distance. He could see the dips and crests of the territory surrounding the camp, with the tents spread out on a plateau bordered by a chasm on one side and a tall ridge on the other. Rustling, hissing, croaking sounds rose up from around the quiet encampment. Fires were lit before the entrances to many tents, the largest burning before the tallest one from whose pinnacle a banner was waving in the night time breeze. On a blue field a fleur de lys lay.

Around them men snored, a number of guards with large shields and long lances acting as sentry at the periphery of the bivouacs. 

Needing his privacy, Merlin wandered ahead on shaky legs until he clocked on a spot hidden by bushes at the apex of an elevation. Using his hands to help himself, he scrambled upwards, leaning his weight against the rock as much as he could. Picking his way as carefully as he could, he got behind the prickly redolent bush he had sighted from lower down. Closing his eyes, he let go and did his business quickly. After all, as a Druid he was much more used to living in the open than he was in a building like the Templar headquarters. His cult was one of nature. 

He had just tucked himself back in, when a hand landed on his shoulder and another covered his mouth. Fear took him with cold frissons that climbed up his spine. It plucked at his magic and made it react to the stimulus. He was about to let his power blast outwards, when a voice murmured in his ear. “It's Rashid, Emrys. Let go of your disquiet.”

As he rattled out a stormy sigh, Merlin's shoulders went down. When his mouth was uncovered, he said, “You could have given me a warning.”

Behind him, Rashid said, “You are many things, but you're not as quiet as the shadow, Emrys.”

Merlin turned around. “I told you I'd keep in touch. I thought we agreed.” A shaft of annoyance passed through him and he was louder than he should have been given the circumstances. “How did you find me?”

“I'm an Asāsiyyūn.” The ends of his black turban flapped in a rhythm with the wind. “I'm of the people who are faithful to the foundation of the faith.”

That didn't answer Merlin's question at all, but it sounded like Rashid. He wasn't one for straight answers. It was his actions that spoke for his commitment to the cause. In that Rashid was unflappable. “Why are you here?”

“To remind you.” When Merlin looked as if he might ask another question, Rashid added, “You have had a year to worm yourself in the Templar network and find the Grail. But the vessel escapes us as much now as it did when you started on this quest.”

Merlin let the wind cut his face, chap his mouth. It tasted like the night, like tamarisk leaves and cedar bark and for a moment Merlin thought of nothing but the peace of the night, the quietness nature was capable of. It contained all the world's untapped potential, all its true power. If men weren't at war with each other, they could better understand its secret motions. In spite of his beliefs, Merlin was of mortal stock and shared his failings with his kind. “I am to blame.” Admitting as much was easy. What came next wasn't because he was now forced to dwell on considerations he'd long pushed away from the forefront of his mind. “I know it's taking me long.”

“Too long,” Rashid said, his whisper as powerful as a scream. “The cup of ʿĪsā ibn Maryam must be ours.”

Merlin was terribly aware of that. This war, many more wars, would be fought if the Cup of Life wasn't secured. The destiny of the world was at stake. Though he wasn't a seer, he could envisage the devastation that would rage upon it if the Cup didn't fall into wiser hands. No man alone could guard it, no single faith should exercise control over it. “I haven't changed my mind.”

“Then why isn't the vessel in your hands?” Rashid's face looked bleak, severe with the harshness of winter.

“The Templars aren't fools,” Merlin found himself saying. “I need to tread lightly.”

“You've had a year.” Rashid's pursed mouth hinted at more than simple displeasure. “Have you at least located it?”

Merlin couldn't lie. Rashid was his ally. They had a covenant. They were in league with others to achieve their goal. Their fellowship's intent couldn't be ignored. “No. No, I haven't.”

Rashid looked baffled, a muscle prodding his jaw. “In that case I suggest you act fast, or the consequences would be catastrophic.”

Different factions were already at war. The Christians were attacking Nur ad-Din's forces and his armies were retaliating mightily. Emperor Manuel Komnenos was plotting with and playing both sides. It didn't take a prophet to foretell a catastrophe. And the calamity wasn't limited to the near future only. This conflict would simmer and grow, causing untold pain and unmitigated disaster. It would mar the distant future, and hack away at the happiness of future generations. Nobody knew the paths it would lead down to, but annihilation would be a consequence of this brewing feud. “I will find the Cup of Life.” Even as he said the words, his conscience bit him to the quick. He thought of Arthur and the nobility of his conduct when compared to Merlin's. He pictured his future dealings with him in light of what he knew he had to do. “Just give me more time.”

“I should report it,” said Rashid with no emotion to his voice. “But I won't.”

Cautiously optimistic, Merlin extended a hand out to Rashid. “Does this mean you'll wait for me to sort this out?” 

Rashid's face remained unreadable for a succession of long seconds. Then he inclined his head. “I respect the Druids deeply. Therefore, I'll allow you more time.” 

Merlin understood what remained unsaid. If Merlin failed, Rashid would make sure the mission didn't. It was part of the reason why the people behind him, the higher echelons of the Nizari together with their leader the Old Man of the Mountain, had assigned Rashid the task of retrieving the Cup of Life. It was a given that he would never give up, not even short of death. “Thank you, I--”

The moon was obscured by a cloud the wind had shifted. Darkness surrounded Merlin, enveloping him in its folds like the arms of a waiting lover. The night grew silent, as if not a soul were whispering among the heights of the Taurus mountains. Merlin felt like the last man left on earth and suddenly longed for the company of his fellow men, wishing he could be loud so as to call them to him.

In truth the moment didn't last long at all; it was no more than the span of a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then the dark pall lifted from the moon and brightness once again washed around him.

But Merlin was alone. On the slight rise he was standing on there was no one, not a soul. Somehow between a breath and the next Rashid had gone. If Merlin didn't know his accomplice had no magic, he would have suspected him of it. And yet his silent disappearance was only due to his stealthy manoeuvre.

Unsettled, his conscience still lambasting him on so many levels, Merlin was about to turn around and wend his way back to the heart of the camp, which harboured his tent, when Arthur cleared the rise. 

He was as Merlin had left him. He wore neither surcoat nor chain mail. He had neither sword nor any other weapon. He still looked sleep-mussed and completely innocent.

And yet Merlin couldn't stop wondering whether he had heard. How long had he been there? Could he know that Merlin had entertained an enemy of the knights of the Temple? Did he suspect? Did he know? What was he about to do with that knowledge? Would he attack Merlin? Was he planning to kill him as a traitor? He'd be within his rights.

Though Merlin could defend himself by using his magic, he didn't want to. He couldn't possibly wield it against Arthur. Even if he had employed it against against Arthur's Temple brothers before, he couldn't aim it at Arthur himself. Merlin's betrayal wasn't the only reason for his inability to act. His heart would crack if he had to attack Arthur in self-defence. He vowed not to do it. And though he had a mission he had to live to see through, he resolved then and there that he would do nothing to stop Arthur.

Arthur didn't move from the shadows when he said, “What have you been doing?”


	17. The Banks of the Claise

February 1148, Adalia

 

The sea sparkled azure and emerald, white foam capping the waves in a froth of bubbles. To the far side of the harbour shoals rose to the surface, their face harsh, geometrically jagged. They were grey outgrowths, shiny with the glint of water, rendered green by clumps of algae, walls of orange-striated mussels clinging to them. To the south, the pier itself stretched long and far into the depths of the sea, with waves rushing over it and towards the shore. Every foot of the port was covered with people or cargo just as every jetty was occupied by boats and dinghies. Tall ships meant to cover the vast distances between Syria and the major Mediterranean ports lay at anchor, while busy crews loaded and offloaded them. Street vendors catered to sailors and knights, Jewish families and Frankish merchants alike. The crowds hurried or idled, had attendants or travelled alone.

The fleet was loud with all manner of noise: the dull ring of smaller boats jouncing against bigger ones, the curses and calls of the mariners, and the sounds produced by seagulls circling over the area. Captains were loud with their commands too, while priests chanted blessings in High Church Latin over the vessels. Indefatigably, crews toiled on the boats, stripped to the waist, their backs glistening with sweat.

Some of the ships were originally merchant vessels, but the majority of them had been co-opted for use in the Crusade.

Lancelot helped overseeing the distribution of men and animals on the ships, discussing the details with the Captains of the different vessels. He made sure the wagons laden with Frankish weapons were properly packed, so as to avoid damage to their arsenal. At the same time, he oversaw the stocks of food. Armies were deployed to fight, but they couldn't do it if they weren't properly fed and equipped.

When he was half done, Lancelot disembarked from the King's ship. He took a stroll down the jetty, avoiding the flow of humanity moving towards the docks. The sun on his back, he walked on, his cloak rippling in the wind. 

Once he'd cleared the quay, he found the mouth of the harbour and to the east of it the beach. The sand was made of fine grains, as pale as white clay. These grains were compact, dry, except of course for the areas on which the sea encroached. The wind, when it rose, swept the sand about, driving granules of it in little whirlwinds that soon died. Others it flung right into his eyes. 

But he didn't mind, for the vista took his breath away. Lancelot had been born in a burgh at the foot of a castle in Northern Frankia and wasn't used to such sheer luminosity or to such intensity of colour. The sea was perfectly azure just like the sky, and the sand was brighter than the sun. His native land, on the contrary, vaunted sharp and craggy rock walls, fogs that blurred the edges of castle turrets and fallow fields, and narrow ruelles that climbed towards the keep.

Though he had been here before his recruiting campaign in the West started, he still marvelled at everything he saw in the Holy Land. It was an experience that had entered his consciousness and carved a mark on it, just as the Templar one had. The Holy Land had changed him in equal measure as his belonging to the brotherhood. It had all been new at one point, unexplored. 

And yet there were ways in which this territory also served to remind him of the home he had left behind. There might have been no Edenic beaches in his homeland, and the sea had had a cobalt tint to it most of the time, but there were river banks that in summer looked lush and green, bodies of water that were like mirrors of nature, and vegetation that became lush in spring.

He remembered a certain strand along the Claise, formed by its bight. Starting in June, the sun would shine over it, making the Claise glitter and sparkle. The water course bubbled along, its waters appearing more crystalline the more the weather brightened. The strand wasn't really sandy, rather earthy in its nature, but soft all the same.

Guinevere had loved that spot. She used to take her shoes off and walk barefoot across the grassy banks, until topsoil and mud adhered to the flat of her soles. Later she would sit down at the top of the bight, where the incline started, basking in the sun, her head tilted back, her hair free of pins and veil. 

Even though Lancelot had been the one to discover the place, she was the one who'd stay there for hours, until the sun dipped and the air became crisp with the first nip of evening. For his part Lancelot never complained. If he had his way, he would contemplate her warm beauty endlessly. Partaking in the joy she took out of that place was a blessing he was thankful for.

Soon they made of the bight their meeting spot. They would make no appointments; they wouldn't have any fixed plan. Gwen would turn up and wait for him. Or Lancelot would go and before long Gwen would appear, sometimes bearing a basket, sometimes with flowers in her hair. Always, she was more beautiful than the blooms she wore.

Though she was stunning without any adornment, Gwen loved picking dresses that would become her. When quite young, she had become an excellent seamstress. A lovely young woman now, Gwen made her own clothes out of the spare materials that were afforded her. Invariably, she made every single frock appear more fetching than anything the noblewomen chose to put on. 

But though Gwen always liked to appear put together, she also often let go. When the weather was warm, she used to roll up her sleeves and pull up the hem of her frock so that her calves showed, and just frolic around, nature teeming around her.

There was one time that happened he remembered quite well. 

“Here,” she said, brushing at some object she had unearthed as she moved to sit down next to him. “Look what I found.”

Though he wished to gaze at her and not at any artefact, Lancelot looked at the object she was showing him. Even if it was covered in river grit, Lancelot could tell that the dulled roundel was. He wouldn't even have needed to read the Latin lettering or seen the laurelled head of a past emperor to know what it was. “A Roman coin.” He took it from Gwen and held it up to the light. It didn't catch it, but it looked slightly less rusty. “Elagabalus, I think.”

“Oh, I wonder who he was,” Gwen said, tapping her chin. “Surely a mighty person.”

Lancelot nodded, then gave back the coin. “Yes.”

Gwen looked happy with her coin; she further cleaned it and then kept turning it, as if she wasn't quite done appreciating it. “I love it. And finders keepers.”

“You might want to sell it.” Gwen's father, Lancelot knew, worked hard to provide for his daughter, but couldn't afford frivolities. If Gwen sold her coin, she might fetch a little something with witch to spoil herself. It wouldn't be much, but Lancelot thought Gwen could make little go far. “It'd might be nice for you.”

“No.” Gwen said, dimpling as she scanned her treasure trove. “I would never part with it.”

Gwen had assuredly settled this in her mind, but Lancelot would try one last time. “It's of little use as it is.”

“Oh but it's a keepsake.” She craned her head to set her gaze on him. The wind played havoc with her hair, but she didn't seem to mind. “Of our day together. I'll treasure it always.”

She said it so earnestly, so simply, that Lancelot was moved beyond the power of words. He had never imagined he was a philosopher, but he had always thought he could express himself well, with respect for his interlocutors and warmth for his loved ones. And yet all his breath was stolen and all he wanted to say equalled to gibberish. He lost himself in the looking at her and fancied she was as flustered as he was. Normally Gwen was collected, firm, but now she wasn't and that worked Lancelot up even more. Thus he could not speak for a long while, until at least his swirling thoughts coalesced into a sentence. “Will you marry me?”

Though his question had been dictated by a rush of feeling, he was not being irrational in formulating it. He had thought about proposing before and every time he imagined his future Gwen was part of it. He could see himself serving his father's lord as his father had done. His future was assured that way and he could provide for a family. It wouldn't be the life of a king, but he would be happy. He'd make sure Gwen was too. 

“You know I can't,” Gwen said, breaking Lancelot's heart in one swoop. “Couldn't possibly.”

Lancelot bled on the inside. But all hope wasn't lost. “Why, you know I love you, Gwen.”

“You're the constable's son.” Her voice was level, her face set with determination. “I'm a blacksmith's daughter training to be a servant.” She paused as though to make her point. “We can't wed, for we're not equal.”

Gwen, Lancelot saw, was steeling herself to stick to the decision she'd made. The world they lived in had made the rules and she wanted to abide by them. She didn't wish to ask for anything that wasn't her due. She didn't want to be seen as someone trying to get something she wasn't meant to achieve. 

“Gwen.” Lancelot took her hand. It wasn't as soft as other girls', for Gwen had helped her father forge weapons when she was little and even now worked hard at learning her craft as a servant. She mended, darned, fetched and carried. But it was the most beautiful hand Lancelot had ever seen all the same. Holding it awoke the most tender feelings in him. “I don't care. I love you and I'd like to marry you no matter whether you were a princess or a scullery maid.”

Gwen's eyes went larger with wonder. A tear glistened in one of them. “But the difference in our stations.”

“If you were a princess with all the riches in the land and I was but a poor beggar, would you marry me?”

Gwen squeezed Lancelot's palm. “But of course. I'd be happy to share all my wealth.” 

“I don't have a prince's ransom to dispose of.” The Lord of Preuilly, whom his father served, wasn't a very generous master. “But what I do have I'd like to be yours.”

Gwen gave this a moment's thought. She was a deep thinker, so Lancelot let her reflect. The beginnings of a smile dawned on her lips. “In that case, I'd like to be your wife, Lancelot.”

Because they didn't have any, they fashioned a matching couple of rings out of grass stems. In place of the stone they forged a knot. They exchanged them and spoke vows they would repeat in church, before the local priest, who blessed every birth, marriage and death in the parish. And all the while the sun shone on them, blanketing them, and reflecting itself off the water of the Claise. 

It shimmered just as the Mediterrenean did today. Except things were different now. He was no longer the hopeful youth he had been. He was a fighter, a Templar, a man who had renounced earthly love in favour of the love of God. All because Guinevere was lost to him forever.

It was no use thinking back to his younger days. No use remembering France and the woman he 'd loved – still loved – with all his heart. He had a fleet to move at the behest of a King. He had to make sure that what was left of the Frankish army would make it to safety. It was his duty. If he could no longer devote himself to his idol, to the marital love he had dreamt for himself, then he could serve his brothers as best as he knew how. He would be a loyal Templar, a good Templar.

And maybe, by and by, he would come to sacrifice himself for the cause. Perhaps he'd meet his Guinevere in heaven and there they would be reunited forever.

Having fortified himself, Lancelot wrapped himself more tightly in his cloak and made once again for the harbour jetty. 

Before he could reach his goal, he met Everard, who was raising sand with his thick boots, his hair ruffled by the wind, so that some of its grey strands flapped about, rough and unkempt because none of them had had time to groom since Cadmus. “We aren't ready yet,” he said with a grim face.

“But we will be.” Lancelot had made all the possible preparations. He had made sure the remaining men were fighting fit, he had secured their supplies, and he had spoken with the ships' captains and to those responsible for King Louis' retinue. “We will get the King to Acre.”

“Yes.” Everard looked to heaven. “But what for is the question.”

“King Louis needs to meet with the other crusade leaders.” Lancelot slitted his eyes against a burst of sunshine. “They must all convene and talk about the situation. They can't form a battle plan if they don't all agree and you know it, Everard. Lords and marshals, kings and princes quarrel all the time out here.”

“Yes.” Everard sighed till all the breath he had rattled out of him. “What if they don't? Rumour has it they're all at cross purposes, Louis and Konrad, the Byzantine Emperor and the Baldwin of Jerusalem.”

“It'd bad policy and we'd all be slaughtered.” Lancelot could envision the disastrous consequences of such an eventuality. “But I want to think this won't happen.”

Everard placed his hand on his chest, where his heart was. “We obey orders.”

Lancelot had sworn the same oath and agreed. They would do what the Grand Master told them. They would prop the Templars' cause. With nothing more to say about the situation and a lot of work to do, they walked back towards the pier, which was lashed by a wind that ripped at their clothes and tried to fling them backwards. They stopped mid way towards the ships and turned around to watch a column of Frankish soldiers come their way. 

Lancelot was focusing on the eventual deploy of those same troops that were clanking past, when he sighted two women on horseback. They had stopped their mounts on higher ground, at the mouth of the pier, and were watching the soldiery proceed towards the vessels. The ladies' mantles flapped in the wind, their hair, arranged under no veil or wimple, shook in the gale, their steeds of good breed and quality. 

Something about them stopped Lancelot in his tracks. Though the clothes of one of the ladies was certainly costly, they seemed to have no escort, which titled women usually had about. Furthermore, they were showing an interest in the military proceedings taking place. Lastly, no one had challenged them. 

Perhaps they needed his help. Maybe they needed assistance. He would go and enquire. With a silent gesture, he communicated his decision to Everard. Everard having signalled he understood, Lancelot advanced a few paces, but just as he did, the lady in the rich garments turned her horse around. 

But not before Lancelot had recognised her companion, Guinevere.


End file.
